


Yesterday's Paradise

by hopesetfree



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angel & Vessel Interactions, Ezekiel | Gadreel Possessing Sam Winchester, Gadreel Joins Team Free Will, M/M, Season 9 remix, Vessel Consent Issues, Vessel Sam
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-05-13
Updated: 2016-03-21
Packaged: 2018-01-23 23:21:40
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 8
Words: 59,943
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1583144
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hopesetfree/pseuds/hopesetfree
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Who we were, what we did... That's not who we are now."</p><p>This is the story of how a lost angel and a broken man saved one another, by virtue of a single leap of faith. (Goes AU at the end of "I'm No Angel." Dean convinces Gadreel to talk to Sam, and Castiel remains at the bunker.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Sadreel, Destiel, Kevin and Charlie being awesome, Gadreel and Castiel as brothers in arms, issues of vessel consent, fluff and angst, Castiel with kittens: This fic has it all!
> 
> Thank you to my beta reader, [Furf](http://wormwoodworms.tumblr.com/). This fic would only have been a shadow of itself without your amazing help.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I always felt an opportunity existed for Ezekiel/Gadreel to come clean to Cas at the end of "I'm No Angel", rather than sending him away in fear. I always felt Cas would feel angry, but he'd understand as time passed. Canon later proved this thought correct when Cas eventually came to understand Gadreel's plight. This fic is an exploration of how Season 9 might have unfolded if Gadreel (and Sam) had made that leap of faith.

Art by the talented [TricksterAngelGabriel](http://tricksterangelgabriel.tumblr.com/). (Click [here](http://tricksterangelgabriel.tumblr.com/post/120380363395/tricksterangelgabriel-commissioned-for-the) for a higher resolution)

 

* * *

 

He stumbles through a vast and overwhelming desert, every glittering grain of sand a wound he cannot bear to hold. He won’t lift his head to look at the horizon, for he can never reach it, even as its inexorable pull trembles through his nerveless fingers.

Pride tells him the aching years and tests have purified him. Anger presses darkly upon him, even as he drowns in his own culpability, all flaying at his skin like glass. He could have stopped it all. He failed.

Envy of the dead almost destroys him.

He stumbles blindly towards an unbearable horizon he shall never reach. He weeps in agony, tearing viciously at himself, for the desert torments him, thrumming through his very core. And his legs never give him the mercy of faltering. The wind and sand and light burn him no less.

One day, the blistering light runs dry and all his awareness becomes consumed in fire, skinning him clean, evil and bloody and holy. Anguish tears at him anew when he comes to and sees a new desert before him to wander, perhaps as undying as the last.

He just wants it all to be _over_ , but it never, ever ends.

He stands, and walks.

 

* * *

 

Dean’s voice has a thread of a tremble running through it.

“Sit down, Sam.”

Alarm pools low in Sam’s gut, iron-heavy, forcing the air from his lungs. “What’s going on, Dean?

“I got to tell you something, and you’re gonna be pissed off.” Dean plunks down into the chair, his mouth opening and closing hesitantly. His forehead wrinkles. Yeah, this can’t end well.

“Okay…”

“Those trials really messed you up.”

That again? Sam sighs, his face tightening. “I know that, Dean, but I’ve been feeling better—.”

“No, you _don’t_ know,” he interrupts, waving his hands as though he could weave comprehension into form. “I mean messed you up like almost dead. No more birthdays, dust to dust. Well, that messed me up, so I made a move, okay? A tough move about you without talking it over because you were in a coma.”

The corners of his lips turn downward, his eyes narrow. “Huh? A coma?” He shakes his head. Weren’t they driving around in the Impala for an entire day after the trials? Sure, he’d been knocked clean out, but… “Dean, we ditched the Trials two weeks ago. I feel fine.”

Dean’s visage darkens. “You don’t get it. I made a big choice, okay? You were in the hospital, and they said you were gonna die.”

Anxiety curls against Sam’s spine, tingling hot through his limbs. Whenever it comes to Sam and dying, Dean has a track record of doing stupid things.

“What did you _do_?” he demands, voice thick and rough.

“You've got to stay calm, okay? If this goes sideways after I fill you in, you could still die. Seriously, you could drop dead right where you’re sitting—.”

“Dean,” Sam interrupts, “I’m as calm as I’m going to be. Tell me what you did.” His nostrils flare as images of crossroads demons and other frightening alternatives dance in his mind.

Dean chokes on the words like they’re made of lead. “I let an angel in.”

Sam’s brain scrambles to make sense of it. Of all the desperate things Dean could have done, talking to an angel didn’t sound _quite_ so bad.

“Uh, okay,” Sam says, his heart beating rabbit-fast. “Why are you upset? You let an angel in the hospital room to heal me?”

Dean looks away, eyes dark. “Seriously man, you got to stay _calm_ —.”

“Dean, whatever it is, just spit it out!”

He meets Sam’s eyes, voice whisper-quiet and small. “In you.”

Sam frowns, his mind a cloudy storm of confusion, because nothing makes any sense at all.

Dean leans forward, exhaling harshly. “I let an angel _in you_. He said he could heal you, and he is.”

Sam inhales and holds the breath tight, feeling the burn of it in his lungs. Understanding arises all at once, flowing through his entire body in a single, white-hot rush.

“You let,” and Sam has to pause, breath tense and heavy, because he knows he’s two seconds away from shouting. “You let an angel _possess_ me? The hell is wrong with you, man?”

His brain chooses that moment to play catch-up, and Sam’s thundering heart nearly halts. Dean had just finished telling him to stay calm or this would all go sideways; that he might drop dead instantly if he didn’t keep his cool.

Oh, god. No.

“Wait, wait, it… Is it still inside of me?” Sam sputters, fear coiling in his gut, hot and startling. Another rush of anger boils over, because this is too much, even for Dean. “How? I never invited it in!”

Dean drops his face into his hands, because apparently looking his brother in the eye has become too much to manage. “I tricked you into saying yes.”

Sam springs to his feet, red-faced and shrill. “You… I…! What the _hell_ , Dean?” Fear and anger both run frigid and hot through his veins, because there’s a freaking angel inside of him somewhere and obviously, possession _never_ goes wrong. “Why would you make a choice for me like that? You know I’d rather die!”

“You were in a coma and we were under attack by other angels! I didn’t have time to friggin’ ask, all right?” Dean shouts back, jaw clenched. “Look man, you can kick my ass all you want to, but right now, you need to understand if you kick him out, you’re dead.”

“Dean…”

He stands slowly, as if any sudden movement might make Sam flee. “Be pissed at me, okay? Yeah, I let him in. But if you kick Zeke out now…”

Sam bites down on his tongue, trying to calm the cascade of pure, white-hot rage encompassing him. “Zeke? Is that his name?”

“Uh, well, that’s what I call him,” Dean stammers, his voice softer. “When he saved my ass, he was doing the whole ‘witness protection’ thing to hide from the other angels, going by Ezekiel. But his real name is Gadreel.”

“So he _already_ lied to you?” Sam snaps back, his attempt to keep his voice to a minimal level all but forgotten. “Dean!”

“Just shut up, okay?” he says, holding out his hands palms up, pleadingly. “He brought Cas back yesterday, okay? Cas was dead. That reaper iced him, and Zeke brought him back.”

Sam pauses, tries to catch his breath—the effort feels like trying to reign in a racehorse bare handed. “Why the hell am I just hearing about this now? If it’s been…” He trails off, counting backwards in his head. “Jesus, Dean, it’s been more than two weeks! Didn't you think I’d want to know an angel was riding my skin?”

“He thought you’d kick him out if we told you,” Dean says. “I thought so, too.”

“Damn right I’m going to kick him out!”

“No!” Dean shouts so loud it echoes throughout the room. “Sam, stop! You do that, you drop dead, right here and now!”

Sam brings his hands up and grasps the sides of his head, fingers tangling in hair. “When were you planning on telling me? Never?”

Dean’s eyes narrow, but his voice remains steady. “He was gonna heal you and split, and you were never gonna know the difference.”

“And why are you telling me now? What went wrong with that _brilliant_ plan?”

Some of the fight evaporates from Dean. “I convinced him to talk, okay? Cas was here, and all these angels are after him. Turns out they don’t like Zeke too much, either. And Cas… he would've known, Sam. He would've figured it out.”

Sam turns a livid glare on his brother. The topic of Castiel _would_ end up forcing Dean’s hand. “Why are _you_ the one talking to me, then? Why isn't ‘Zeke’ speaking up?”

“Because I knew you’d blow your damn top, man!” Dean hisses. “That you’d boot him out first and ask questions later—oh, except, there’d be no later, because you’d be dead!”

He draws in a breath through clenched teeth, willing his heart to slow, because he really needs to calm down for a second. This isn’t his first rodeo. He did all this with Lucifer before, in an ultra-bad situation. This is… maybe less bad. Maybe. The angel hasn't made off with his body yet.

He closes his eyes and scrutinizes his mind for any speck out of the ordinary, but finds nothing. He finds not a single emotion out of line, not one stray thought. He hears no voice whispering in his ear.

“Why can’t I feel him?” he asks, voice raw. “Last time an angel used me as a suit, I felt like I’d been thrown into an icy river and dragged down into the rapids.”

“He doesn't, like, listen in,” Dean says, gesturing at Sam’s head. “He hides out inside your head, doing his healing thing.”

A long silence follows, stretching oppressively between them. Sam shudders as thoughts of possession, of losing his entire body to yet another invading leech, roil deep and anxious within his gut.

Sam’s absolutely certain he’s never been as enraged at anyone, ever, as he is at his brother.

“I was ready to die, Dean.”

“I wasn't!” Dean’s entire body goes tense, even as he drops down into the seat. “Look, I just wasn't. I couldn't.” He closes his eyes. “You’d have done the same thing for me.”

That draws Sam up short, his entire body going rigid.

He really doesn't get it. Dean has never experienced possession from demons or angels. He’s had a ghost overcome him before, sure, but it’s not the same as an angel or demon wearing his skin. In theory, he probably can imagine it (Michael _had_ been after him a few years ago), but imagination doesn't hold a candle to the reality.

“No, Dean,” he finally says, his voice quiet even as it strains and trembles, “I wouldn't.”

He can pinpoint the exact moment Dean realizes he’s not kidding. An icy wave of revulsion, bitter and cold, rises in Sam. How did Dean actually think Sam would ever willingly let something possess him?

Of course, the short answer is he didn't think.

Dean’s vulnerable expression lasts only a moment. He turns his head and nods once, almost as if Sam’s reaction had been perfectly expected.

“You can’t kick him out, Sammy. Not yet,” Dean tells him. “Don’t go and do something stupid because I did.”

Sam finds himself again confronted with the reality of an angel hiding in his head. _Right now_. Sam’s ready to spit and claw and tear at the _thing_ until it leaves, because his mind belongs to him and him alone, thank you very much. And what decent angel would agree to a coerced ‘yes?’

There’s just the pesky detail that he’ll die if he boots the intruder preventing him from screaming ‘no’ until his throat bleeds. He had been ready for death before, but right now he’s _too busy_ to die, dammit.

Sam draws in a breath, cool and steady, searching for equilibrium in the sea of emotion. “What does Cas say about all this?”

Dean hesitates. “Cas doesn't know yet.”

Sam shuts his eyes, running a hand through his hair. He isn't sure why he’s even surprised. “Why?”

“Gadreel is spooked by the other angels. He’s on their ‘most hated’ list, just like Cas.”

If true, Sam thinks the two angels should have a lot in common. He ditches the conversation with Dean, closing his eyes to concentrate. He searches mind and body for any trace of the squatter.

"Where are you, angel?" he hisses through gritted teeth, viciously ransacking every far-distant corner of his mind for something he can neither hear nor feel. He makes an abortive gesture for Dean to _shut up_ already, just in case he gets the bright idea to start talking again. Sam doesn't want to hear it.

Something seems to hear _him_ , though, stirring at Sam’s call. A hushed presence unfolds inside of his head, expanding slowly. Sam feels a rush of radiant, soothing warmth, as if standing next to a fireplace, burning steady on a frigid winter’s day.

A voice that’s everywhere and yet not answers his call: _“I am here, Sam Winchester.”_

Sam’s blazing fury cools a sliver. The angel feels small and wounded, Grace flickering like a candle in too stiff a wind. Echoes of pain not his own, tender and fresh, thread dully through Sam’s body. The soothing heat he’d felt a moment ago remains, but stutters with effort, as if it’s all too tiring for the angel. His Grace feels far from robust, bleeding off of the angel like a tap left to drip.

His anger further cools as he considers this unexpectedly damaged presence. Of course. The Fall. Some angels even died, didn't they?

Sam’s never felt gratitude to Lucifer (one never quite comes to appreciate status as the Devil’s favorite chew-toy), but those hard-won lessons with the archangel may become handy. He's capable of kicking this angel out if it comes to a struggle. Right now, it’d even be easy. He need only tell it to leave.

The warm presence draws in on itself a fraction. _“Yes, though such action shall be unnecessary. I will leave if you wish. But Sam, you are not well.”_

Sam thinks about just skipping the pleasantries and subduing the angel, injured as it is, and forcing him far, far beneath the surface, just as he managed to do with Lucifer. But then, he’d managed _that_ for all of a minute, but it’s plenty long enough to kick an angel out. Sam’s certain he can pull it off again, if necessary.

The angel shifts within him, a pulse of anxiety aching in Sam’s bones, but does not protest.

It actually makes hot, liquid rage boil inside of him again. How dare the angel feel anxious? Consequences be damned, it’s Sam’s body, and Dean had no right to invite anyone into it. He should make it leave _now_ …

Though, there’s a perfectly good reason he avoids big decisions when he’s so angry he can’t think straight.

Do angels fresh off the heavenly express think any ‘yes’ will do? Do they not comprehend the importance of a ‘yes’ freely given? It makes Sam think about Jimmy Novak, and watching him beg Castiel to leave his daughter’s body and take his own. Talk about duress.

Mostly, he feels gripping fear, his nerves aflame and stinging. This angel can simply overwhelm him at a moment when Sam’s not vigilant and steal his body. Or, hell, while he sleeps.

_“I give you my word, I will not,”_ the angel tells him softly, accompanied by a soothing flare of warmth to ease Sam’s aches. _“I believe in honor, Sam.”_

Sam doesn't want the angel to whisper assurances in his ear, or to comfort him. He wants his solitude, his _privacy_. He feels caged with no options, like he’s stuck in a ring with powerful lion who promises it won’t bite. He _can_ drive the predator out, but fate has rigged the exit and he’ll die if he follows through.

Though, Gadreel has had opportunity before now to do just that, yet hasn't. He could have taken Sam over entirely and used him as a vessel. He could have strolled right out of the bunker one night while Sam slept, and no one could have stopped him. Sam may indeed feel caged, but the angel has not done anything overtly threatening.

Or maybe Sam’s just trying to convince himself, because kicking it out means he dies instantly.

That’ll have to do for the moment, it seems. It’s not like he has an actual choice.

His anger cools somewhat, at least towards the angel (Dean remains another story). His anxiety, however, roiling winter-cold and heavy, goes nowhere. He’ll deal with it later.

"Since you’re wearing me as a suit, let’s get properly introduced. I’m Sam. What's your name?" It comes out bitter, cold, and hardly sincere, but it’s the best Sam can offer.

_“I am Gadreel.”_ If the angel feels offended, he doesn't show it. _“I have previously hidden under the alias Ezekiel, but my brothers would know me as Gadreel.”_ At the mention of other angels, Gadreel draws inward minutely, something akin to a shudder trying to escape.

"You're afraid of them," Sam says, a statement rather than a question.

It’s not so surprising, really. Angels aren't the friendliest bunch, and helping out a Winchester would certainly do an angel no favors in the eyes of his peers.

Gadreel doesn't answer—doesn't need to, as Sam feels a rush of fear coiling sharp in his gut, feels the angel tucking into himself as if he might disappear entirely into Sam again.

“Hey? You still with me?”

Sam can only feel him through his many wounds from the Fall—a dull, pulsing throb throughout his Grace.

_“You will not know I am here,”_ he tells Sam, his voice calm and certain.

But Gadreel feels neither calm nor certain, Sam realizes. Desperation coils hot along his skin, pulsing out in dim swaths of light Sam can almost see behind his closed eyes. Certainly, the angel can hear his thoughts. The fact Gadreel doesn't disagree, or even comment, says enough for Sam.

_“I would leave as soon as you are healed.”_ It almost sounds like a plea, a request for safe harbor in exchange for healing duty.

Actually, Sam realizes, that’s probably exactly what’s happening here. He’s still not happy about it. At all.

"You pull anything funny,” Sam finally says, “and I’ll kick you right the hell out. Got it?”

_“Understood.”_

“And when I’m healed—.”

_“I leave.”_

He blows air through tightened lips. “All right. For now.”

Tension unwinds between Sam’s ribs. The angel’s Grace goes smooth against his skin, no longer threadbare and taut. The same warm glow he’d felt before returns, like soaking in the heat of the sunshine.

_“Thank you. Fear not, your privacy is honored. I do not eavesdrop.”_

Sam frowns, because he’s worried about more than just privacy. Surely the angel understands?

Gadreel’s acknowledgement diffuses through Sam’s muscles, fluttering and somewhat dejected.

_“If you require my assistance, call upon me.”_

Gadreel retreats back to his hiding place. Sam’s awareness of him fades into a tiny pinprick until he evaporates entirely away.

The warmth does not completely fade, however, even as Gadreel seems tuned out and tucked into wherever he’s hiding. The flicker of soothing heat causes Sam to realize he’s unknowingly felt an echo of the angel’s presence all along.

His eyes open slowly, blinking as he adjusts to the light. Dean stares up at him in clear distress, even as his eyes shine with unasked questions.

"Sam?" he questions softly.

“Yeah, it’s me, Dean.”

Sam feels alone in his head, for now, though he’s painfully aware there’s a passenger along for the ride. The faint glow of Grace remains, whisper-soft and gentle despite Sam’s anxiety, his fingertips tingling. In any event, the angel has vanished for the time being. It strikes him with some measure of relief.

His gaze falls upon Dean. “You and I need to talk.”

It’s less talking than shouting, and it lasts half the night, but it’s the best Sam can manage.

 

* * *

 

After venting at Dean and cooling down, Sam finds himself determined to learn more about his stowaway. He could just knock on the angel’s hidey hole and ask, but he’d rather do the research himself. So naturally, he starts by nosing around in a dusty, acrid tome of angelic lore.

Gadreel: the Wall of God. The Guardian. In Aramaic, the variant is Gadriel, for “God is my helper.”

Beyond the name, Sam finds nothing optimistic.

He stars in many roles in Talmudic, Enochian, and Biblical lore. He’s the third of five Satans. He’s a fallen angel, a high-ranking demon. In one telling, he even stars as the snake, tempting Eve in the Garden of Eden. One book claims he taught war to mankind. He’s almost shown in a more damning light than Lucifer.

With a reputation like that, Sam thinks he might hide, too.

It would be easy to dismiss Gadreel by the lore alone, but Sam knows by now the lore doesn't always tell the whole story. The lore paints Raphael as a miraculous healer, and in reality he’d tried to bring about a second apocalypse. Gabriel certainly hadn't seemed much of a divine messenger. And Sam’s certain Castiel doesn't have much to do with Thursday (though it’s probably worth asking).

He’ll just have to wait and see.

If Gadreel listens, Sam notes he has nothing to say. It’s far more likely the angel hasn't tuned in at all.

All at once, Sam has an idea.

 

* * *

 

A special place forms when one becomes possessed, a piece of mental landscape overlapping between host and possessor. Sam knows it well, because twice before he’s been there. It feels as sharp and clear as the real world, but it’s made of scattered thought, of fragmented pieces of the both of them glued together.

When Lucifer had possessed him, Sam sometimes found himself summoned there, usually because the Devil wanted to have a face-to-face chat. It always had an element of consent—Lucifer could never force him there (or never tried, at least). Meg was different. Sam had found himself locked inside, beating hands bloody on the walls, no escape possible.

This headspace, the genesis of two minds, provides ideal conditions for an honest heart-to-heart. Sam might speak to the angel possessing him directly, but he’d have to endure a level of non-privacy far more revealing than his earlier conversation with the angel.

Sam’s already tuned in to the landscape’s rules and passive emotional bleed-through, but the angel wouldn't yet have such an advantage. Sam certainly doesn't intend to stay long enough for it to happen, either. He inhales deeply and closes his eyes, thumbing through the wrinkles within his mind for the mental headspace. He has no idea what to expect.

When he opens his eyes, he’s standing in a grand library.

It has the ancient feel of the bunker’s own library. A set of tables linger between two rows of bookshelves, and the Aquarian Star adorns various fixtures in the room. Featureless brick lines the walls, solid and unyielding, while the floor feels cold and solid beneath his feet. It has the same dusty scent of aged paper, and the faint taste of ink burns sour in Sam’s mouth.

Beyond those details, however, it doesn't resemble the bunker’s library at all. It dwarfs it in sheer size, with floor-to-ceiling bookshelves stretching to the far-distant corners of the room. Despite the familiar smell of dusty tomes, it remains entirely devoid of books. A hearth crackles nearby with a lovely fire, radiating heat and comfort. A long, plush couch and a sofa linger nearby, tempting him to rest his tired legs.

With Meg, this mental landscape had felt like drowning in a sea of black; dragged asunder in something heavier and sharper than water. He’d never seen any light at all, just blackness and frantic terror he couldn't break free of, no matter how hard he tried.

With Lucifer, it took the form of a lonely, abandoned building, reminiscent of the one in Detroit. Colder than a clear, arctic night, but brighter than the surface of the sun. It had streamed with eye-searing light, so luminous his bones ached with the raw agony of Lucifer’s power.

Both had been awful, awful places. This library seems different.

Sam steps carefully through the grand library, eyes falling upon immaculate, empty bookshelves. The couch actually seems large enough for his long legs, unlike most. Gentle heat flows from the nearby fireplace, its light flickering steadily. It feels just shy of cozy, like the newness of an empty house just before you begin unpacking.

He pauses to stretch numb fingers towards the fire and sighs, the aroma of burning wood sharp and rich in his nose. Even if this place isn't exactly physical, it remains as vivid as reality in every way. At least this time it doesn't strike terror into the fiber of his being.

He’s alone, but Sam had expected no less. After all, he’d have felt Gadreel long ago if the angel had dallied here. Even now, with Sam poking around, Gadreel hasn't made himself known. It makes him wonder, briefly, if perhaps the angel truly means to leave Sam in peace, as he claims.

His cheek twitches. He’s never heard of a case of possession anything like this before. An angel hiding from its vessel? Healing a body from within, without taking control of it?

Sam sighs. While the scenery intrigues him, he didn't come here for the ambiance.

He closes his eyes, focusing on the soft, pulsing warmth seeping underneath his ribcage. In this place, the angel can’t hide from Sam, even as small and hidden as he’s made himself. He clutches with a mental grip around the warm Grace and tugs, calling the angel forward.

The angel stirs at once, his confusion thrumming hot against Sam’s skin. Grace shifts in discomfort, the awareness of Sam’s summons leading to a pulse of worry. While he doesn't resist Sam’s pull, he doesn't swiftly answer, either.

When Gadreel doesn't immediately show his face, Sam doesn't tug at the angel so much as yank. Hard.

The angel’s surprise ripples through Sam’s bones as he all but tumbles into the room, eyes wide and breath catching. The sight satisfies Sam more than a little, because so long as Gadreel knows Sam can control him in some manner, the better.

The angel’s shock fades after only a bare instant, standing ramrod straight and expressionless.

Sam doesn't recognize the form before him. Lucifer always appeared as Nick, so he’s probably seeing Gadreel’s former vessel. He’s tall, only a hair shorter than Sam. Well-built and solid like a barricade, though Sam still outdoes him in sheer size. Dark, dirty blond hair and green eyes rest in a face framed by a razor-sharp jawline. Verdant eyes shine with intensity, but don’t seem unkind.

Wall of God, indeed. With his statuesque posture and stoic air, he’s a barrier made of stone.

His skin looks bloodless and ashen, perhaps a representation of the angel’s injuries, Sam thinks. He seems solid and strong enough, yet not quite healthy.

No. Stop.

Sam didn't bring him here to feel sorry for him. He pushes the would-be compassion away.

He opens his mouth to speak and stops short, a wave of anxiety not his own sweeping low and tense around his spine. No matter how calm the angel looks or how severe he holds himself, he feels none of these things, and it’s all laid bare for Sam to see.

This place in a nutshell: Cruel, brutal honesty. Sam’s been through this before, so he knows his way through it. The angel either hasn't caught up yet or refuses to show it.

"So, I've been reading about you," Sam says.

Gadreel’s upper lip twitches minutely. As Sam recalls his research, the angel seems to view it for the first time, eyes gone distant.

“I see,” he says calmly, as if he weren't awash with apprehension.

Sam quirks an eyebrow. "I thought maybe you’d want to tell me the real story?"

His face betrays only a barely-there frown, but Sam feels dread curl in the angel, shame fluttering on the edges of his awareness. There’s more—a well-concealed sadness that pools somewhere cold and dark, and a restlessness rumbling through his core that doesn't fit with his stony guise.

"No, I would rather not," Gadreel finally answers, his breath a steadying one, his intense gaze never deviating from Sam. "I do not suppose that will suffice, though."

He can feel Gadreel within him, drawing thin and burrowing deeper within Sam, as if to hide from the human’s scrutiny. He doesn't run away from the library, however, and Sam can’t let him. He needs answers from the angel.

“I know you're healing me,” he starts, softening his tone for the angel’s sake. “And that's…. Look, I have to know your story. If you're a good guy with a bad reputation, I just need to know what’s going on.” Sam lets his lips curl into a slight, if bitter, smile. “If you're a Lucifer groupie, on the other hand, I need to know that, too."

Gadreel's face contorts, horror-stricken. Well, so much for humor.

“Would that I had ended him myself,” Gadreel says, his jaw twitching.

But the angel's face holds no signs of anger. Shame, frigid and knife-sharp, thrums within his Grace, chilling Sam right down to his bones.

Sam personally _knows_ that kind of shame.

"I made a mistake," Gadreel admits, looking away from Sam to study something interesting on the wall instead. "Lucifer tricked me."

An angry part of him wants to seize upon his words and find fault with the angel before him, even if he doesn't know what they’re talking about yet. Yet everything about the way Gadreel carries himself, all his emotions flowing through Sam as vividly as his own, stops him.

It strikes too close to home. He thinks of Ruby and when he accidentally started the Apocalypse. Sam’s been fooled, too. And plenty of people found fault with him and didn't care to listen.

Okay. Listening can’t hurt. Maybe.

“How?” he asks.

The angel turns his gaze back upon Sam. "The Morningstar appeared to me while I guarded Eden. I refused him entrance. Later, a cherub appeared to me and asked to enter the Garden so it might admire our Father’s creation. Angels often came to stroll amongst the beauty of Eden, so I allowed it by." His head tilts, his eyes downcast. "Had I paid more heed, I might have recognized it as Lucifer’s deception."

Sam blinks. "So, you _are_ the one who let Lucifer into Eden?"

Well, he probably could have worded that better.

Gadreel’s eyes flit up, and he exudes an overwhelming desire to flee, but stands steady. "Yes.”

Sam frowns. That’s a hell of a mistake, but… Is that all? Just one mistake?

“Yes,” Gadreel answers the unspoken thought. “‘Just one,’ as you say it. But it matters not whether it was one or one hundred. My moment of foolishness ruined all Creation.”

Sam watches as muscles in Gadreel’s jawline tense and relax, ticking out an anxious cadence. “Can you elaborate?” he asks. “I’m not trying to put you through the wringer. I just want to understand.”

The angel’s stony face softens a sliver, eyes gone distant and haunted.

“I quickly realized it was no cherub, and alerted Uriel, a fellow sentry. He flew to Heaven to alert the archangels while I searched for the intruder. However, it was already too late. Lucifer had corrupted humanity, ruining the Garden.”

Sam’s stomach churns sourly, and he’s not sure if it comes from him or Gadreel. Or both.

"And so… what? God cast you down with Lucifer?"

Gadreel shakes his head, his mouth set in a grim line. "If only He had been so merciful." He pauses a long moment, weary and exhausted. "My punishment was imprisonment within Heaven. After our Father left, the archangels blamed me for his departure, and Michael decreed I was to remain thus for all eternity. It was not until the Fall that I walked free."

Sam stares blankly at Gadreel for several moments, his words replaying in his mind on repeat. He knows the angel speaks the truth, because lies do not exist here. Somehow, that makes it so much worse.

The angel says nothing else. He offers no words in his defense. He makes no plea of a wrongful imprisonment.

Sam wets his lips as he tries to find something approaching a calm, passive voice. “You mean to tell me you got locked up because Lucifer pulled a scam on you? For what, like the half-second you were fooled?”

“Yes,” he answers. Somehow, the angel tenses up even more. “It was fitting.”

Sam’s not sure whether he’s more surprised Gadreel’s not defending himself and pinning blame on Lucifer, or that he seems to completely accept getting tricked makes him worthy of an eternal life sentence.

Sam suspects this interpretation of the angel doesn't ring entirely true. Gadreel probably enjoys his freedom and seems to have no love for Lucifer. He’s just not voicing either point, for whatever reason.

Sam halts, and reminds himself again he didn't bring the angel here to feel sorry for him. He’s still too angry and worried to deal with sympathy, too. The reminder doesn't quite work, though, because the heaviness weighing down the angel’s spirit floods him and Sam’s aching with it now.

"That seems kind of heavy-handed, though," Sam finally says, his eyes softening. "I mean, Lucifer's an archangel. Isn't that out of your pay grade?"

The angel blinks, and surprise flares briefly in Sam’s chest, even as he appears as still and steady as before. "My brethren do not agree."

It finally clicks. "That's why you're afraid of Cas and the other angels."

"Yes."

Sam reels with the information. It's too much. "Who threw you in prison? God? Michael? One of the other archangels?"

"God commanded it. Michael enforced it."

"He threw you in jail forever? Because you made a mistake?"

Anger, hot and frustrated, threatens to bubble up and spill over for wholly different reasons than before. This might reign as one of the more unfair things Sam has ever heard.

A huff of air escapes the other's nose, his head shaking slowly. "You do not understand. He _trusted_ me. My Father trusted me more than the other angels, and I failed!" He looks away, his heated outburst stilling. "I was distracted. I—."

"Gadreel, stop," Sam interrupts, lips set in a grim line. The angel starts at the sound of his name, possibly because it’s passing Sam’s lips for the first time. "You made a mistake." He sighs. "You didn’t corrupt anyone. Lucifer did."

"If I had exercised better judgment—."

"Stop," Sam cuts in again, flustered and confused. He sighs deeply, irritation sagging with his shoulders. He's not sure whose guilt he's trying to soothe right now. _Being trusted_ and _making mistakes_ and feeling so, so _guilty_ about it all hits too close to home. He swallows hard, his heart thumping as old regrets ache anew. It all pools in his temples, throbbing. "You were fooled. You made a mistake." He pauses a beat. "You didn't do it on purpose."

Sam doesn't know who he’s defending, exactly. Probably himself, mostly, and for things long past. He has no reason to speak such kindness to the angel, after all.

Gadreel slips down to the sofa, eyes unfocused and arms open as they rest on his legs. He makes no attempt to hide from Sam's scrutiny. "If not for my mistake, all the ills of the world would have never come to pass." He looks up at Sam. "That is how my brothers view me, and why I took up the name of Ezekiel.”

Sam flops down on the couch adjacent, sighing. “You shouldn't pretend to be someone you’re not. You should just be you.”

Gadreel’s stony façade melts away for a bare moment, incredulous, before resuming a solid mask. “Among my brothers, my name is synonymous with the evils of Lucifer and demonkind. I have no chance of redeeming my name among them."

It's silent in the library for a long moment. "You think they'd kill you," Sam finally says, understanding. "And so, you’re hiding."

"Yes." The angel's expression twists, regretful. "I am sorry, Sam, that I nearly chased away Castiel. Fear of the others overcame me."

Sam bites the inside of his cheek. Everyone feels fear, sometimes, until they learn how to deal with it, he thinks quietly. The angel may or may not hear him. “Hey, you brought him back from the dead. That’s awesome.”

The corners of his lips turn upward. “It seemed an unfitting end. Dean was also highly distressed.”

Sam smiles faintly, anger momentarily stilled, though a thousand different things demand answers. Why did Gadreel hide from Sam from the beginning? Why did he abandon a perfectly willing vessel for one he had to trick?

"We should talk to Cas,” Sam says instead.

Gadreel frowns at the suggestion, and Sam can feel terror wrapping around his spine in all the wrong places. "No."

"Cas will understand—."

"He will not," he interrupts.

Sam huffs, his eyes narrow. "Cas disobeyed Heaven a lot of times. I mean, he disobeyed Michael and led a rebellion against Raphael. If any angel has a chance of understanding, it's him."

He feels the angel before him shrink into a tiny, minuscule space within, yet the image of him here never moves at all.

"I will leave."

It's spoken softly, with more than a flicker of worry, but it's still a threat. Sam thinks he doesn't mean it, but he can’t know for sure. He doesn't really think the angel’s sure, either.

Sam sighs, his exhaustion bone-deep and raw, and leans against the soft couch. "Look, I get it. You've been locked up this entire time, and you're afraid. Fear is a healthy thing."

"For a human," the angel adds.

"And for you, too, now that you’re living among humans. Fear keeps all of us safe, lets us know when we should run. But there comes a time when fear paralyzes us and keeps us in dark places for too long. Sometimes fear makes us do things we never would have normally done, you know?”

Gadreel narrows his eyes fractionally, unconvinced. Sam just frowns.

"Look, I spent time in Hell with Lucifer," Sam continues. "So, I know how hard it can be to trust someone after being locked away and tortured." He buries his face in his hands, wanting to get through to the angel, because they can’t keep this secret from Cas. They just can’t. "So, I guess I'm asking you to trust me on this. If you can."

Gadreel blinks slowly, his eyes settling on the fireplace. "And if I cannot?"

Sam briefly considers pulling rank, in a sense. He could give him the option of talking to Cas or getting out of his body, but knows an ultimatum won’t accomplish anything. Besides, Gadreel already knows he can ditch Sam at any time. Between the angel’s injuries and Sam’s questionable ability to control a possessing angel, passing around threats becomes kind of pointless. It’ll suit everyone better if he just tries to play nice. Sam doesn’t have a marvelous track record at that, though, not when he’s angry.

"Then, we'll figure something out." Sam says, not wanting to keep Cas in the dark, yet desiring to extend an olive branch to the angel in his head, too.

When Gadreel's eyes meet his, Sam thinks he sees something akin to astonishment there, as though he hadn't expected Sam to compromise (he probably didn't, Sam thinks). He thinks he can feel it, too, a flutter of _something_ moving inside his ribcage. It's probably nothing, but it might provide an opening.

"But if anyone can, he’ll understand," Sam tries again.

"I allowed the corruption of God's most perfect creation. Any angel would desire to kill me."

"You made a mistake. You didn't allow anything. And please, humanity is far from perfect."

Gadreel actually recoils at this. Sam’s confusion lasts for about two seconds before he realizes exactly what he's just said, and thinks he might as well have thrown acid on the angel’s guilt.

"That's not what I meant. I mean we have free will. We make the wrong choices sometimes, too."

After a long moment, Gadreel nods slowly. "God's most treasured creation, then."

The sincerity of the statement resonates through Sam. "You haven't met many of us yet, have you?"

"Just you," Gadreel admits. "And your brother, of course. My former vessel remained asleep for the brief duration of my residence."

Sam snorts at the idea that all Gadreel has to go on for the values of modern humanity are Sam and Dean. God help the poor guy. “Bad examples."

Gadreel's eyes furrow, and he appears deep in thought. "I understand why you say that, but I must disagree. I find your example to be in keeping with my Father's expectations."

Whoa, wait, did an angel of the Lord just say Sam would live up to _God's_ standards?

“Yeah, uh… look. In case you didn't know, I've done some bad stuff. I’m no one’s good example. You probably shouldn't take it too seriously.”

The lines of his face furrow deeply. “I do not understand. It is your actions now which define you.”

Sam tries not to gape, and fails. Yeah, the angel doesn't get it. Yet, his soothing, calm voice does something to Sam, because he's sincere.

His throat feels thick, and he thinks he should thank him, but the words stick in his mouth. After all, he’s still the angel who worked with Dean to trick a ‘yes’ out of him, and Sam’s not ready to offer a ‘thank you’ for anything just yet.

They sit for a while, the quiet broken only by crackling from the hearth, where the angel examines the fire as if it contains the secrets of the universe. Sam can feel the warmth of the angel’s Grace surging through his body bright and clear, a striking contrast to when the angel hides and virtually disappears. Gaps and inconsistencies where Grace has previously torn thrum softly, nearly out of Sam’s awareness, yet to heal.

Time will tell, Sam supposes, how this will all work. Hopefully, it won’t have to last long.

Something shifts within the angel, his jaw tightening, a thick swallow bobbing his Adam's apple. A strain of disquiet pulses through Sam again, dull and unsteady.

"As you wish, then” Gadreel finally says. “Let us speak to the angel Castiel."

"You won't regret this," Sam reassures him, reveling in the small victory.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some may have noticed I plucked the story of Lucifer-as-a-cherub fooling Eden's guard straight out of Milton's _Paradise Lost_ (though, in Milton's work, it was Uriel who was fooled, not Gadreel). We never fully learned what happened in SPN canon, so I'm sticking to the classics.
> 
> A sidenote: I wrote this fic in it's entirety before "Meta Fiction" aired. I've made some changes to keep to Gadreel's characterization later in the season, but keep in mind the story will deviate from the second half of the season.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to my beta reader, [Furf](http://wormwoodworms.tumblr.com/). This fic would only have been a shadow of itself without your amazing help.

He's absolutely certain Gadreel’s cringing inside his skin, _totally_ regretting this.

"Whoa, whoa, calm down, Cas!" Dean shouts, holding back the former angel.

"You son of a bitch!" Cas spits at Sam, either unaware or uncaring that Gadreel remains in the backseat. "All of this! All of it is your fault! The Apocalypse, demons, all of it! You ruined the universe!”

A ripple of guilt and anguish cascades within the angel, stealing Sam’s breath at the intensity of it. It’s a familiar feeling—too familiar. Old words rise unbidden in Sam’s mind, nearly ancient accusations echoing his ears:

_You’re sorry you started Armageddon? This kind of thing don’t get forgiven, boy._

_Drinking demon blood? This is about as far away from strong as you can get. Try weak. Try desperate. Pathetic._

For a moment, red becomes all Sam can see, anger swallowing his mind whole. It's silly, because Gadreel’s a powerful angel and doesn't need a defender, but Sam doesn't think it through. He feels hot with his misdirected anger that doesn't even make sense, his fists clenching. He’s not sure whether he’s mad on Gadreel’s behalf or his own, or if he’s just mad at the situation.

It takes him a moment to calm down enough to speak. His temper won’t help anything. He needs logic.

“Cas, you realize you’re shouting at the angel who resurrected you, right?” Sam asks, tone remarkably calm. “Maybe even the only one who would.”

“If _he_ hadn't been so weak, none of this would have ever happened!” he spits back, cerulean depths alight with rage.

Dean grabs Cas’ arm, spinning him around to face him. “Cas, hey! You got to chill, man.”

“Dean, he—!”

"What about me, Cas? I _started_ the Apocalypse!" Sam breaks in, voice trembling and swelling. “I let Lucifer out of his cage.”

"It's not the same, Sam," Cas shoots back. "Ruby fooled you.” 

"Oh, sure, _that_ makes it okay," Sam says, voice dry. "Just a run-of-the mill demon fooled me. It's not as if an _archangel_ , with all its power, tried to trick me."

Cas' face falters for a bare moment. "It's not the same," he repeats, but doesn't sound quite as certain.

"The angels think you're a bad guy, too, Cas. They think you and Metatron are working together. Isn't there the slightest chance Gadreel has gotten the same rotten press?"

" _No_ ," he growls. “God Himself imprisoned Gadreel.”

He closes his eyes, and sees a bar, closed up for the night, and a circle of angry hunters demanding penance: _Why? You gonna hate me any less? Am I going to hate myself any less?_

Sam’s eyes fly open, and he takes a heaving breath. He can’t stroll down memory lane, not now.

"Cas, you were God for a while. You let loose the oldest monsters of all, who went out and terrorized humanity."

Cas's face does falter this time, his expression going slack. "Sam, I—."

"I know,” he says. “You didn't mean for it to happen. And you did time paying for your mistakes in Purgatory."

He hesitates, blue eyes glancing uncertainly between Dean and Sam. "Yes..."

"What about the angels falling? Do you think you should do penance for that?" Sam presses.

He feels Gadreel shift inside of him, uncomprehending of Sam's tone and purpose, confusion thrumming hot along his skin.

"I... yes." Cas' anger evaporates, and he hangs his head.

Even Dean side eyes Sam at this point, his jaw clenching, as though he’s about to jump and defend Cas.

Sam takes a steadying breath and reaches out to clasp Castiel's shoulder. "Well, you _don't_ deserve any more punishment. You've given enough."

Cas’ head tilts upwards, the lines of his face creasing. He looks as confused as Gadreel feels within him.

"No mistake is worth eternal punishment," Sam tells him. "Being wrong is not the same as doing wrong. I mean, come on, Cas. You fought Raphael. You may have done the wrong things, but you did them for the right reasons. You never meant for it to turn out as awful as it did. ”

Understanding flickers in Cas' eyes, and his expression softens minutely.

"Gadreel made a mistake. Lucifer fooled him for a single moment, and that one mistake has cost him since the beginning of time. Gadreel did not ruin the universe. _Lucifer_ did."

Cas seems more uncertain than ever. "God himself commanded Gadreel thrown into Heaven's dungeon."

"And where is He? God hasn't been seen in a long time, while everything goes to hell around here," Sam counters. "I'm sorry, Cas, but God got it wrong. He split, and the archangels decided to throw away the key. It’s unfair."

Gadreel shifts yet again, his Grace glowing warm and constant, and the restless murmur Sam’s felt for weeks smooths somewhat. Instead of retreating into a minuscule pinpoint of awareness, the angel unfolds and fills his body just a little more, as if realizing maybe he doesn't need to hide from Sam all the time.

Perhaps Gadreel has spent all his time since the dawn of humanity hiding; drawing himself into the smallest places, hoping he would be neither seen nor heard. Even though his prison was in Heaven, Sam still knows the angel experienced torture on par with Hell. It's akin to how Sam himself behaved in the Cage, vainly trying to hide from Lucifer’s tortures, clawing at the unyielding walls as if he could become a part of them.

A distressed shudder trembles through him, like he’s drowning in hellfire again. He survived Hell for far too long, and he doesn't want anyone else to live such torment, either. Whether an enemy, a friend, or an angel he only slightly knows, it's a torture too terrible to wish upon another.

Something uncertain tugs at him, summer-warm and curious all at once, and if Sam could lay eyes upon Gadreel, he has no idea what he might see. Coursing Grace in his muscles comfort with an unworldly touch, his frayed nerves unwinding like unspooled thread.

He frowns. Why does the angel care? Why does Gadreel bother with comfort?

_“I understand torment,”_ he says with a dispassionate tone, like he’s talking about the fucking weather.

Cas draws Sam’s attention away from Gadreel, shifting his weight from foot to foot. "I will try," he says, his eyes narrowing to slits. "But Gadreel, should you harm Sam Winchester in any way, I will _end_ you."

Hearing Dean's words in Cas' mouth throws Sam for a moment. Anyway, the message arrives loud and clear. "He hears you."

"He should show his face and tell me himself," Cas pushes, face flushed deep red, voice rough and furious again.

Sam levels Castiel with a withering glare, even as Gadreel’s Grace stirs, proceeding to request Sam for permission to take over. Just for a moment, he asks.

Sam's so stunned the angel even asked he forgets he’s answering out loud. "Now you’re asking? You’re already in here."

_"It is your body, Sam Winchester. I agreed to heal you, not use you as my personal vessel."_

Huh. Wonders never cease.

_"Sure, okay. Go talk to Cas."_

The angel expands, blue-white Grace exploding behind Sam’s eyes and blinding him for an instant. Gadreel swells to encompass every crack and crevice within Sam's body, light stretching full and hot, enveloping him. While the angel seems strangely well contained within his body, he doesn't quite fit into Sam’s skin. It feels awkward and uncomfortable, like wearing clothes a few sizes too large.

Gadreel doesn't fully possess Sam, not really—he’s filled with the angel’s presence, but not bursting with it. It's not mind-numbing and terrible, not the way Lucifer filled him to the point of agony. Lucifer had been burning, frigid light, the archangel’s presence spilling over like Sam’s body was a too-full cup, threatening to rip open. His only other reference to angel possession had been Jimmy Novak’s ‘chained to a comet’ sensation, which doesn’t match, either.

He feels his back straighten, his posture shifting subtlety. His mouth moves and his voice works without his consent. The intonation, the accent, they don’t belong to him.

"I understand, Castiel," Gadreel says with a calmness Sam knows he does not feel at all.

“You should not have concealed your true name from Dean,” he adds, his voice harsh like fire.

“Indeed,” Gadreel tells Cas, his expression stoic. “I was… concerned, in the beginning.”

Castiel glares, but it doesn't have quite the bitter bite of his previous stares. He gives the angel a short, curt nod. "Do not conceal yourself in the future, and perhaps angels might find you more trustworthy.”

Gadreel loudly thinks such action would constitute a death wish, but he does not argue. “I will submit to your wisdom on the matter, brother.”

Cas’ face softens a fraction more, as if he hadn't expected the answer. “Return control to Sam," he orders, in lieu of continuing.

The angel draws up within him all at once, the light and warmth retreating back into the tiny place within Sam where Gadreel hides. It's so quick, so _automatic_ it leaves Sam reeling. He hadn't actually expected him to follow Cas’ order so lightning quick.

When Sam had been in Hell, Lucifer had shattered him to pieces. He had come to follow Lucifer's commands with the same kind of automatic reaction: completely thoughtless, as fast as possible, lest his disobedience invoke a cruel torture.

Sam waves his arms, palms out. "I'm here, I'm back."

Cas' face relaxes, though he still regards Sam unpleasantly. "As I said, I will try. I cannot promise anything."

And Sam doesn't miss the flare of restless hope blooming in his chest, a tingle of emotion fluttering out through his fingertips.

 

* * *

 

Two weeks pass, and almost nothing changes. If Sam didn't know the thrumming warmth in his ribcage came from the angel, he wouldn't know he had a passenger at all. He’s buried deeper than bedrock beneath sandy soil.

So much for the angel not hiding from him. Not that Sam’s complaining, exactly.

He tries to calm his nerves about the whole affair, but it feels like trying to contain a wildfire with a single bucket of water and willpower alone. Two weeks later, and he’s about as comfortable as he’d feel carrying a boulder on his back.

So he doesn't call to Gadreel, and Gadreel doesn't talk to him. It works… for a while.

He and Dean head out of town to take care of a vampire’s nest near Kearney, and it’s fairly routine—up until a descending blade glints in the moonlight, the last vampire burying a knife in Dean’s chest. Sam lunges forward and beheads it, and drops to Dean’s side. The blade cuts clean through his shoulder, jutting rudely out the opposite side. A greenish slime covers an exposed part of the blade near the hilt, and Sam thinks it smells like a poison they've encountered before. Leaving the blade in might kill him. Pulling it free probably means Dean will bleed out.

Sam does the only thing he can think to do: He screams for the angel’s help. “Gadreel!”

He does not stir, and Sam clamps his eyes shut, rooting harshly within himself for the angel’s presence. He finds a tendril of Grace and yanks hard, pulling at the heat and light at the heart of the angel.

This time, Gadreel’s answer is near-instantaneous, unfurling and spreading out his Grace through Sam’s limbs like a wildfire blowing right over a firebreak. A rush of extreme confusion spreads as the angel peers out through Sam’s eyes, but he quickly divines Sam hasn't called him here for a picnic.

“Help him, please,” Sam begs. “You can heal him, right?”

_“I require use of your body.”_

“Take it!” he shouts.

The angel surges forward, ill-fitting, but bright and whisper-smooth. Sam feels his back straighten, and he wants to twitch, but can’t. Gadreel places Sam’s hand, solid and steady, on Dean’s chest, a flutter of Grace reaching out, assessing.

“Zeke?” he chokes. Blood lines his teeth, his lips dark with it.

“Do not fear,” the angel answers. “I will heal you.”

Concern twists though his Grace, prickling like bare skin against snow. One hand presses firm against Dean’s shoulder, the other wrenches the vile blade free. He covers the wound, and Sam feels Grace swirling forward, out of his palm, and into Dean, beating a gentle cadence to match his brother’s heart.

It ends abrupt and sharp, energy drained like he’s lost a fistfight with a brick wall. Gadreel sits back on his heels, regarding Dean silently, his head tilted. Dean groans, and sits up, kneading the absent wound.

“Nice timing, man.”

Gadreel does not meet his eyes, instead taking in the scene with widened eyes, sincere astonishment fluttering in Sam’s chest. “Vampires.”

“Vamps,” Dean agrees. “Dead vamps, now.” He grunts, lumbering onto leaden feet. “Weren't you paying attention?”

Gadreel’s lips twitch, the slightest of frowns. “No. I do not eavesdrop.” He rises to his feet, impossibly lithe and graceful, stretching out to Sam’s full height. “Dean, your brother is not well enough to be hunting.”

Sam disagrees. He feels perfectly fine, thank you very much.

_“I am certain you do,”_ the angel tells him. _“The presence of my Grace strengthens you. However, you are not, in fact, well.”_

“Hey, he told me he was good,” Dean protested, mouth twisting.

“He feels well, yes,” Gadreel says. “Do not allow this illusion to mislead either of you. I am currently all that holds him together.” He regards the bodies on the ground a moment, curiosity flaring in his Grace for an instant. “Your hunt is over?”

Dean snorts, casting a long glance at the bodies on the ground. “We ganked all them bitches, so… yep.”

“Then I bid you good night.” And he drops back within Sam like a stone in water, folding up into his hiding place, leaving Sam momentarily stunned by the rapid departure.

“Hey, hey, wait a minute!” Sam calls out, only just catching the angel’s attention.

_“Yes, Sam?”_ The angel’s voice echoes quietly between his ears, somewhat expectant, a thread of exhaustion coloring his Grace.

Actually, Sam’s not certain what to say at all, or what he’d even been thinking, calling out to the angel. He’s just spent the last two weeks studiously avoiding any conversation or interaction, as if he could hide himself away from the angel possessing his body.

“Thank you,” Sam finally says, “for helping Dean.”

A slight pulse of warmth expands from his chest, radiating out through his entire body. _“You are welcome.”_ The angel sinks back into his quiet spot, just beyond Sam’s ability to easily reach.

As he and Dean clean vamp blood and goo from their blades, repacking their gear in the Impala, Sam replays the evening’s events in his mind. Gadreel’s confusion and alarm had been sharp and visceral, and so very real. He’s struck all at once with the realization Gadreel has kept his word. He respects Sam’s privacy. He doesn't even seem to peek out of Sam’s eyes.

Sam wonders if it’s lonely in there, wherever the angel hides.

They arrive back at the bunker two hours later, and Dean greets Cas with a clap on the back and a bright smile, which Cas returns. When it’s Sam’s turn, however, Cas drops his eyes and turns away, making swiftly for another room. A soft, barely there, “Hello, Sam,” passes his lips.

Sam just sighs. Cas has to speak to him eventually, right?

 

* * *

 

Another week passes with no change. Dean won’t let Sam go hunting, Cas still won’t talk to Sam, and Gadreel has made no further appearances.

Sam thinks about the angel’s absence too much, and it’s like bracing himself for a destructive blow that never comes. The other shoe hasn't dropped. If he’s completely honest with himself, he doesn't think it’s going to. If Gadreel meant him harm, he’s had ample opportunity to make a move already. Sam thinks he’d sense it, too, and so far, he’s yet to feel anything personally threatening.

He wonders about where the angel goes when he hides. Wonders if his body feels like just another cage to the angel. Sam doesn't know much about Gadreel, but if he closes his eyes and just _feels_ , he gets scraps, tiny hints which allow him to start painting an image—an ever-present current of restlessness; a cold well of sadness he can scarcely touch; a flutter of grief.

He’s nervous, but now there’s curiosity, too, spreading like a slow poison through his thoughts. Who is this angel riding around in his skin? This creature who shares his body but doesn't even fully manifest himself? Why does he feel restless?

Sam ponders these mysteries as Dean and Castiel argue with one another over the topic of pets. Sam blinks back to the present, and glances over his shoulder at Kevin, who hovers near the doorway. Sam exchanges an amused glance with the prophet, and when Dean moves to ask Sam for his opinion, it all goes wrong.

“I don’t want _his_ opinion,” Cas snarls, far more vicious than strictly necessary, considering they’re talking about kittens.

All movement in the room halts, the heat gone frosty and silent.

Sam sighs, exhaling through tight lips. “Cas, did I personally offend you, or something? You won’t even speak to me anymore.”

His eyes narrow. “It’s not _you_ , Sam. It’s him.”

Sam stares, flustered. “You’re not getting Gadreel’s opinion. Hell, he’s buried so deep _I_ couldn't get his opinion right now if I wanted it.”

Cas stares, uncertain, blue eyes stormy with conflict.

“Look, cut him _and_ me some slack, okay? He brought you back from the dead _and_ saved Dean’s life, and he’s not even whispering in my ear.” Sam shrugs. “So, stop taking it out on me, already.”

Cas’ chest heaves with a loud gust of air. His expression does not soften, but he nods, once.

“Besides,” Sam says, “I don’t care if you guys get a cat or not. It doesn't matter. You should both do what makes you happy.”

Kevin, hitherto silent, adds, “I wouldn't mind a kitten.”

Cas snaps his head back to Dean. “See? That’s three of us.”

“No way, Cas,” Dean argues. “I’m allergic to cats!”

Sam can’t hold back a smirk. “You could get a puppy.”

“Or a guinea pig!” Kevin suggests.

“Will you both _shut up_?” Dean hisses, lacking any mirth whatsoever.

Kevin snorts, face splitting wide with a grin as he ducks out of the room. Sam shakes his head, and leaves the not-boyfriends to sort it out.

He strolls to the bunker’s library, letting his body slide down into a chair. He’s still smiling, an occasional chuckle working its way free. Imagine, seeking out Gadreel’s opinion on a kitten…

It’s too bad. Gadreel’s reaction to an argument about small, fluffy animals probably would have been hilarious.

The thought draws Sam up short. He should probably try and draw Gadreel out more often, anyway. They’ll never get to know one another otherwise. Besides, the angel can’t enjoy the isolation and solitude he’s imposed on himself.

The idea makes nerves go aflame, his stomach twisting in knots. What if the angel gets the wrong idea and starts taking over? What if he comes out all the time, violates Sam’s privacy and autonomy, and ignores Sam’s wishes?

But none of these things have happened. Gadreel has only ever done what Sam asked. And he’s helped—Sam’s still breathing, after all. Gadreel felt concern for Dean’s sake when the vampire injured him, and he’s offered comfort to Sam, even when Sam had been angry with the angel.

Sam massages his temples, thumbs pressing into tender flesh. He didn't sign up for this crap. But it’s not fair to the angel, either, not really, and Sam’s not going to pretend otherwise. He hides Gadreel away like he’s a necessary evil instead of a living, thinking creature, only to arise when Sam or someone else needs something.

A ‘necessary evil.’ It’s an apt description for how he’s viewed the angel thus far. Though it remains true, in a way, Sam thinks maybe it doesn't have to stay that way. As long as the angel listens to Sam’s direction and doesn’t try and march away with his body, it should sort of work out, right?

He rests his elbows on the table, fingers steepled against his lips. He reaches within, all his scrutiny and focus tuned to the place he knows the angel hides away.

Grace flutters warmly underneath his skin, the angel emerging from murky, unknowable depths in a swift rush, expanding, stretching out, filling skin and bone.

_“Is anything the matter?”_ he asks after a moment. _“I sense no danger in our vicinity.”_

Sam’s stomach does something decidedly unpleasant at the word ‘our,’ but he pushes the train of thought away. “I just wanted to talk.”

Faint surprise flickers in his chest, though the angel’s tone remains even. _“Of what?”_

“You, actually,” Sam says. “I was thinking, you know, maybe you should come out more often. Like you are right now. Not in control, but… present, you know? You've got to be bored in there, right?”

Gadreel remains silent a long moment. _“Thank you, but I must decline. I have given you my word, and shall not intrude where I am unwelcome.”_

Sam frowns. “Well then, I’m inviting you. That makes you welcome. Come out every once in a while. Read a book with me. Enjoy dinner. Or whatever it is angels do.”

The angel falls silent, and Sam detects the tiniest trace of _want_ humming through his Grace, fleeting and dim. It makes Sam smile—Gadreel wants to say ‘yes.’

_“I promised you your solitude, Sam, and I shall not break my word.”_ He pauses. _“And if I am distracted from the task of healing you, I will spend longer within you than you want—longer than we both want.”_

Sam blinks, stunned, something caustic gripping at his chest and going right down his spine at the angel’s declaration. The sensation stills after a moment, because it’s not actually so surprising. Gadreel doesn't like the situation any more than Sam does. Given their scant few encounters, the angel probably even thinks Sam despises him.

_“Do you not?”_ he asks, tone absent of inflection.

Sam inhales deeply, holding the breath. “I was mad, Gadreel, and I've been uncomfortable. But no, I don’t hate you.” He breathes out slowly, the ticking of a nearby clock ticking loud amidst the silence. He remembers the fiery night he learned of Gadreel’s presence, and all of the anger and fear. “I understand why you’d think that, though.”

As soon as the words leave his mouth, Sam realizes Gadreel probably doesn't like him all too much either. They've talked in earnest all of once, in Sam’s library-shaped headspace. Sam had stared him down, demanding the angel give up his greatest regrets and misdeeds to a near-stranger. And Gadreel, despite the anxiety it caused him, had complied.

Only fleeting scraps of conversation had passed between them after the first night: explaining the situation to Cas, and begging for Gadreel’s help to heal Dean. Sam had demanded both of these things, prodding until the angel agreed.

_“You are wrong,”_ Gadreel says softly, a thread of gentle warmth weaving throughout his Grace. _“I harbor no ill will towards you, Sam.”_

Sam smiles faintly. “Then hang around every once in a while. There’s no reason we should stay strangers.” He leans back in the seat, the wooden edges digging sharply into his back. “I want to know who this ‘Gadreel’ is that I’m carrying around inside of me.”

After a long moment, he finally says, _“As would I.”_

The answer confuses Sam, but he shakes it off. “So?”

_“I shall consider it.”_ And all at once, he retreats back within Sam.

 

* * *

 

For two entire weeks, the angel does not make so much as a peep. So much for consideration.

Sam sits cross-legged on his bed, MP3 player cycling through his playlist as he reads ancient lore on demons for anything to help them fight Abaddon. Ruby’s blade doesn't work. Angel blades won’t work. According to Cas, neither will an archangel blade nor a flat-out smiting. Death’s scythe might work, if it lives up to its reputation, but they’ll never get their hands on it.

Something has to work. Abaddon is powerful, but not absolute.

He closes his eyes as a beautiful violin sonata plays, and leans back against cold, solid brick. Sam hasn’t heard this song in too long, and it provides a welcome respite from the research. The music feels bittersweet and tragic, yet delicate. It’s one of his favorites.

He’s so caught up in the crests and crescendos of the music he doesn't immediately realize the angel’s attention has been roused. Grace hums with silent curiosity, and all at once, Sam notices him.

Gadreel freezes—there’s no better word for it—sudden anxiety pulsing in Sam’s bones, as if the angel feels he’s overstepped. Neither of them move for a moment, until Gadreel begins to slink back into his hiding spot. Sam reaches out quickly, pulling gently at his Grace to halt his retreat. The angel stills, though his worry doesn't.

“The song is beautiful, isn't it?” Sam asks. “You should listen to it with me.”

It takes a moment, but the tenseness coiled inside of him relaxes slowly, like sap. Sam smiles, and lets his mind drift on the highs and lows of the violin’s song, swept up in the emotion of the music. Too soon, the song ends, and Sam pauses the music player. The quiet feels fitting after such a gorgeous song.

His rhythmic breathing and the soft cadence of his heartbeat strain against the silence, the silken warmth of angelic Grace flowing smoothly through tired muscles.

Sam’s considering playing the song again when Gadreel speaks. _“Yes, it is… beautiful. I have not heard anything like it.”_

A smile tugs at the corner of his lips, eyes sliding shut as the angel’s gratitude, warm and peaceful, settles everywhere. “I like listening to the violin,” Sam says. “Never learned to play, but… I was busy doing other things. Hunting. Getting ready for Law school. I never got the chance.”

A low hum of curiosity pulses gently underneath Sam’s skin. _“What is a violin?”_

Sam can’t stop his face-splitting grin from tearing free. “There’s one in the storeroom. I’ll show you.”

 

* * *

 

“I got this. You should kick your feet up and take it easy.”

Sam glares. “Dean, it’s been more than two months since the Trials. I feel great.”

Dean’s lips press together, eyes narrow. “Look, this ain't no vamp’s nest. It’s a demon problem.”

“Which is why you should take me,” Sam protests. “Dean, I haven’t seen anything outside the front door in a month, since we took out an _actual_ vamp’s nest.” He shakes his head, frustration burning in his skin. “I’m getting better. I can do this.”

Sam steals a desperate glance at Cas, hoping for backup, but finds no sympathy in those stern, azure eyes.

Dean nods, all smartass and sarcasm. “And what does Zeke say?”

Dean’s never quite gotten out of the habit of calling him Zeke. It’s probably harder for him to make a nickname out of ‘Gadreel’ than ‘Ezekiel,’ but Sam doesn’t doubt for a minute he’ll eventually come up with something.

Sam shrugs. “Last I heard from him, he says it’s a work in progress. But really, Dean, I’m fine for this hunt.”

“You’re only fine ‘cause you've got an angelic pacemaker.” Dean shakes his head. “No, you’re sitting this one out.”

“He’s right,” Cas says, finally joining the conversation. “If you overstrain yourself hunting, it will take Ga—him longer to heal you.”

Sam stares at both of them, sullen. “I’m fine. Really.”

Dean and Cas exchange a glance, and Dean raises his voice. “Yo, Zeke! Come out here for a second.”

Sam just chuckles, shaking his head. “He’s not here, man.”

Dean claps his hands twice. “Come on, get his attention, then!”

He exhales, a sharp, harsh noise, and rolls his eyes. He clamps them shut and calls to the angel. Gadreel’s response comes easy and swift, and he rises up to the surface with Sam.

“All right, Gadreel’s listening,” Sam tells them.

“Good,” Dean grunts. “Now, is Sam in any shape to go ten rounds with a pack of demons?”

Gadreel’s surprise—and after a moment, disapproval—flares powerful and hot in Sam’s body, leaving his eyes stinging in its wake.

“I’m fine,” Sam tells both Gadreel and Dean through clenched teeth. “Come on, I’m _fine_. I can do this.”

Dean’s eyes narrow, lips set in a thin line. “I want to hear it from Zeke.”

Sam exhales, disappointment bitter in his mouth. He knows what the angel will say. He closes his eyes and lets go, pushing Gadreel to go and talk to his brother. The angel complies, Grace expanding hot and full in his skin.

His back straightens in the chair. “Absolutely not,” Gadreel says in a voice that brooks no argument, woven through with concern. “Your brother is not well enough for hunts of any sort.”

“That’s what I thought. Thanks, Zeke,” Dean says with a satisfied smirk “See, Sam? You’re not going anywhere.” He turns on his heels, sauntering away.

Sam tries to sigh, and can’t. _“Thanks a lot, man.”_

The angel remains impassive. _“It is the truth. If you could see the state of your body as I do, you would—.”_

Something high-pitched and crinkling resonates all at once in Sam, interrupting Gadreel. The shrill blast makes Sam cringe down to his very core, and he thinks his eyes would water if they could.

“Chatter from the angels,” Gadreel murmurs, by way of explanation to Sam. The reverberating shriek of it dials down to a bearable whistle.

Dean spins around. “What’s happening on angel radio?”

Gadreel tilts his head, his eyes narrow. “Angel… radio?”

“Yes,” Cas cuts in, finally looking at Gadreel for the first time. “The chatter we—.” He halts, shaking his head, and for an instant, he looks stricken. “The chatter _you_ hear of our brothers and sisters. Angel radio.”

Gadreel nods slowly. “Curious. Angel radio, then.”

The angel’s eyes go distant again as he listens, the volume increasing. Sam doesn't hear words, but only the screech of nails on chalkboard, expanding until he thinks his own spine vibrates, ugly pulses skittering across his skin. He wants to cringe, to cover his ears, to claw at his skin and make the awful racket stop. Sam’s never heard a noise so appalling in his life.

In the midst of the agony, Sam feels a burst of Gadreel’s alarm. All at once, the dreadful noise ceases, and in its wake there’s a sweep of summer-warm Grace. It soothes his burning eyes and aching ears, fills the pit in his chest, and smooths the tension along his spine. In the space of three seconds, Gadreel methodically brushes away every trace of Sam’s discomfort.

_“I apologize, Sam. That will not happen again,”_ he tells him. _“I was not aware it would affect you so.”_

Sam thinks his body got confused somewhere between the piercing pain and its near-instant relief. A moment ago, he thought his ears might burst open and bleed, and he desperately needed to cringe, to claw, to scream with the anguish of it. Now, he’s half-numb with Grace, floating, disembodied in his own skin. It’s like being shot up with strong painkillers, except his brain seems to still work fine.

Sam’s state doesn't escape the angel’s attention. _“I will return your body, now. You may relay the information to Dean and Castiel.”_

Sam frowns, or the mental equivalent of it, anyway. _“No, you do it. It’ll be faster.”_

Gadreel hesitates, worry tingling hot against Sam’s skin, but he nods.

“Fighting has broken out between two factions of angels,” he says, addressing the other men in the room. “One is under the leadership of an angel named Malachi, while the opposing faction follows the angel Bartholomew.”

“Bartholomew…” Cas’ voice trails off, and he shakes his head. “Why are they fighting?”

Gadreel squints his eyes, concentrating. Sam hears the sound of angel radio again, but now it’s just faint, warbling static, and doesn’t hurt at all.

“They do not speak of motivation,” Gadreel says. “I will report back if I determine any news.”

Dean nods. “Angel on angel violence, eh?”

Gadreel frowns. “It is troubling.”

“They’re lost,” Cas says, his expression as pained as Gadreel’s. “Looking for direction, and no one’s there to give it.”

Gadreel thinks to put his hand on Castiel’s shoulder in comfort, but abandons the idea. Dean beats him to it, in any case.

“All right, yeah.” He nods. “I’ll call up Tracy and some other hunters. We’ll gank these demon sons’ of bitches and be back in time for dinner.”

“And if they are among Abaddon’s ranks?” Gadreel inquires.

Dean grins. “I’m an equal opportunity kind of guy.”

Gadreel nods. “As you wish. Take care, Dean. I regret I cannot provide assistance.”

“Just take care of my brother.”

Sam would roll his eyes, if he could.

“I shall,” the angel answers. Sincerity flows against Sam’s skin, steady and pillow-soft. He glances up and meets Cas’ eyes, and a pulse of discomfort coils low in Sam’s belly.

“They are hunting for you, brother,” Gadreel tells him. “You should not leave, either.”

“What are they saying?” Dean breaks in.

Sam’s fairly certain Gadreel’s trying to impress the importance of the situation on them, if he judges by the intensity of the angel’s stare. “They desire retribution against Castiel for assisting Metatron.”

Cas exhales sharply. “I don’t work for Metatron. That should be obvious.”

“Nevertheless, you are safe from neither faction. The story they share amongst themselves blames you for the Fall. They claim you are yet Metatron’s agent.”

“They’re wrong! Metatron tricked me and stole my Grace!” Cas blinks, and his entire face goes slack, as if something profound has just occurred to him. He turns a surprised, soft gaze on Gadreel. “That story about me… It isn’t true.”

Gadreel nods. “I believe you.” And after a beat, “And I understand.”

For perhaps the first time, the two angels exchange a non-hostile glance, and a low thrum of anxiety Sam hasn't even noticed until now softens.

“You should remain here, Castiel,” Gadreel repeats. “You are hunted, which places all those here in danger should your location become known.” He pauses. “The chatter among our brothers is so consumed with wrath I fear they would strike first before asking for your story.”

Dean shakes his head. “Yeah, no. You’re not leaving, Cas. You’re gonna keep your ass out of sight, okay?”

Cas looks impossibly tired, impossibly _human_ , like a soaked towel wrung out too many times and left to dry. “Yes. That seems wise.”

Gadreel opens his mouth to speak, but Cas has already spun on his heels and made for the door. With a gnawing sense of regret, the angel watches him go, sorrow and disappointment throbbing ice-cold through his Grace.

_“He’s been different since becoming human,”_ Sam offers quietly. _“I think humanity is overwhelming to him.”_

Gadreel stares at the open doorway. _“I am not often present in the world, and I have not lost my Grace. Yet I also find this world highly distressing. I cannot imagine the depth of his suffering.”_

Sam tries to send something kind and warm Gadreel’s way, something he hopes feels somewhat comforting. _“He’ll come around. Don’t worry.”_

Sam’s body shifts—technically, it belongs to Gadreel right now—and Sam feels the angel reaching out, reacting to Sam’s attempt at comfort with an almost fond sweep of Grace. Yet, worry spreads and flows through the angel, stone-heavy and suffocating.

_“I wish to help him, but he cannot stand to share a room with me.”_

_“Give him time. He’ll see you both are in the same boat.”_

For an instant, Sam’s back aches, deep, fiery stabs quivering down the center of his shoulder blades. It vanishes nearly as soon as he feels it.

 

* * *

 

A few nights later, he’s trying to cajole Gadreel out to read a book with him. This time, the angel actively resists.

Sam knows he doesn't feel welcome, and nothing Sam says seems to convince him otherwise. The angel won’t peek through his eyes when he’s not invited, nor has he rifled through Sam’s memories, nor does he snoop on Sam’s emotions. It’s not that Sam’s not grateful for his privacy (he is), but he’s flustered at his inability to convince Gadreel to come out and play, too, if he’s being honest.

No matter how sincere Sam feels about trying to get to know him, it won’t amount to a thing if Gadreel doesn't want the same thing. He’s at a loss for what else to do, though, and feels so crestfallen it surprises even himself.

It surprises Gadreel, too. He’s just aware enough of Sam to taste the sharp edge of his discontent, and it’s enough to draw him out.

_“Why are you disappointed?”_ he asks in a curious tone.

Sam sighs. “You’re here. We’re stuck with each other right now. And you’re hiding from me.”

_“Is that not what you wanted?”_ His voice rings clear, free of cynicism or spite. He’s asking in all honesty.

Sam thinks on it for a moment, considering his answer carefully. He can’t give Gadreel a white lie or an exaggeration, as these things become pointless when possessed. “At first, yes,” he admits, “but… it’s not what I want now. If you paid attention to what I am feeling, you’d see that.”

Confusion flutters in his chest. _“Sam Winchester, I gave you my word I would not eavesdrop. That includes your emotions.”_

“Yes, and I believe you,” Sam says. “Look, I just want you to hang out in the present with me sometimes, okay? Read a book, watch a movie, chit-chat. I mean, I know you’ve got to be feeling all alone in there.”

_“I do not enjoy the solitude,”_ he admits after a long moment.

Sam holds his breath, feeling the stretch of too-tight muscles in his chest before exhaling harshly. “Then don’t choose to be alone.”

It’s silent for nearly a full minute, but the span of time fills with indecisiveness, worry, want, curiosity, and guilt, all sweeping through Sam as strong as his own emotion might.

_“You will enjoy less privacy. I cannot easily block your thoughts and emotions while present.”_

Sam smiles faintly, brushing away a flutter of self-consciousness. “I know. I’m asking anyway.”

Another long moment passes, then the angel unfurls from his hiding place, stretching forward and expanding his Grace until he’s inhabiting the body with Sam. He doesn’t take control, but Sam can still feel the burning heat of the angel in his core, swirling through his veins and muscles and bones. It’s no different than when Gadreel takes control to speak (all of the three times it’s happened), yet this time it’s a pleasant hum against his skin.

“You’ll have less privacy, too, right?” he asks the angel. “Does that bother you?”

Gadreel doesn't take long to answer. _“No, I do not mind. I think I shall find the company pleasing.”_

 

* * *

 

Sam’s so tired he feels dead in his seat, eyes striving to stay open. Gadreel, however, seems no less interested in the book.

Sam’s musing on the possibility of bed when the angel makes a soft request. _“Might I keep reading?”_

A low chuckle escapes Sam’s lips. “I can’t. I need to sleep.”

_“You can. I shall remain here and continue, should you find it agreeable.”_

Sam blinks slowly, because gravity wants to pull his eyelids shut against his will. He shifts in the stiff, uncushioned chair. “What do you mean? Like, I sleep, and you take over the body?”

_“Indeed. You will rest, and not know the difference. I would ensure you sleep well.”_

For a split second, Sam wants to disagree, which might take more vigor than he currently has at his disposal. The thought of Gadreel strolling around in his body without Sam there to supervise feels disconcerting and alarming. But… It’s not actually such an awful request. Maybe he just _really_ wants to read. And after all, Sam _is_ the one who talked the angel into coming around more often.

“You promise you won’t leave the library? That you’re just going to sit here and read?”

_“You have my word.”_

“If anything comes up, you’ll wake me up?”

_“I shall.”_

He sighs, and finally nods. “All right. Just… don’t leave, okay?”

Something warm pulses underneath his skin, soothing and drowsy. _“I will not betray your trust.”_

He sets the book down on the table, and rubs his face with his hands. At some fuzzy point after that, he falls into a deep, dreamless slumber.

When he awakens, he feels clear and fresh with none of the typical early morning grogginess. Gadreel remains in the exact same seat, with seven fat, ancient books carefully stacked next to him.

As he peruses a dictionary of ancient Greek, Gadreel pauses, noticing Sam’s alertness. The angel hums with contentment, swelling against the boundary of Sam’s skin. It’s perhaps the only time Sam can say he’s seen the angel feeling somewhat cheerful.

“Good morning, Sam,” he says, standing to replace the books in their correct locations. When he finishes, he lowers himself back into the seat. “As promised, I did not leave. I thank you for this. I have enjoyed it.”

His Grace retreats, the bright heat dialing down to a faint warmth, and Sam again has control of his body. And he smiles.

This might turn out interesting.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to my beta reader, [Furf](http://wormwoodworms.tumblr.com/). This fic would only have been a shadow of itself without your amazing help.

The weeks pass quickly, Gadreel spending any scrap of time Sam allows him (plus occasionally when he’s sleeping) in the bunker’s library, catching up on the totality of human knowledge. Both Dean and Gadreel insist Sam isn’t well enough for hunting, so he helps Kevin with research for the angel tablets instead.

Sam’s back hurts off and on, the pain ephemeral as ever. It ripples and pulls tight between his shoulder blades, as a cramped muscle might. Though each bout remains short-lived, it’s happening often enough he’s wondering about it.

Whenever Cas strolls into a room, Gadreel looks on like someone starved for hope. He still won’t exactly talk to Gadreel, but the tension and anxiety has cooled. Gadreel passes on messages to Sam about the happenings on angel radio—mostly to reassure Cas the others have no idea where he’s hiding—and Sam relays them. Cas will mumble a ‘thank you’—specifically to Sam—and scurry away as soon as he can.

Sam wonders how long it will take for Cas to trust the other angel. Probably a while.

So Gadreel waits quietly, his desire to speak to and befriend Cas so overwhelming even Sam aches with it. Any apprehension he’s previously felt about the angel’s presence has evaporated away.

Angel radio, thankfully, no longer makes Sam’s ears bleed, though the static annoys in its own way. Cas’ name remains a regular occurrence, while Gadreel’s name never even comes up. Casualties and grim occurrences from the angelic civil war begin to fill up the chatter.

_“I do not know if this is relevant to us,”_ Gadreel says to Sam one day, _“But the angels are concerned over some of our fallen brothers.”_

Sam’s halfway through his dinner, the crunch of food ringing in his ears. He swallows a mouthful of greens. “What’s going on?”

_“It appears a number of angels have been executed in a manner most peculiar.”_

Sam frowns. “Peculiar how?”

_“An angel blade is not utilized, and the vessel survives the angel’s death.”_

While Sam’s all for vessels surviving angelic possession (himself included), nothing about this sounds like good news. “How?”

The mystery puzzles the angel, radiating low and heavy in his gut. _“I do not know. Neither do the others.”_

“Is this a massacre, or…?”

_“Not quite. Four are known to have died in such a manner. Two belong to Bartholomew’s faction, and two to Malachi’s.”_

He passes on the information to Dean, Cas, and Kevin. It’s worth keeping an eye on.

 

* * *

 

The angel manages to surprise Sam often. He thinks he notices him praying one night. He prays the next night, too, and another, and Sam finds himself wondering why Gadreel would still pray after getting thrown into an eternal lockup.

The biggest change, by far, is Gadreel’s presence. Sam doesn’t have to coax him out. It’s weird, but it works. A few scant weeks ago, talking only happened whenever they had need of the angel. It surprises Sam to admit it, but it’s a welcome change.

Sometimes his nerves still flare up. The strangeness of carrying around a passenger feels disconcerting at times, with Gadreel’s thoughts and feelings jumbling up against his own. Gadreel senses this, and slinks back into the darkness when Sam’s feeling antsy. They have an interesting system going on where Gadreel hovers on the edge of Sam’s mind, observing quietly to see how Sam’s doing before coming out.

Sam has no words to describe his appreciation for this.

Lately, though, Sam feels more curious than nervous. He can’t help it. He learns more about this angel every day, this creature who heals and hides but seems to take nothing for himself.

In turn, Gadreel’s curiosity about the world he sees through Sam’s eyes hums throughout his Grace. The angel manages to endear himself to Sam somewhat, with his questions about textiles and paper cups to his utter confusion on aspects of everyday human life.

Somewhere between the nights spent reading in the bunker’s library and the occasionally hilarious questions about rather normal things, Sam realizes what he has long suspected is indeed true: Language, art, human music, the totality of human accomplishment—it’s all new and strange to Gadreel. Even his first introduction to the English language only happened the day he met Sam, when he took his prior vessel.

Sure, he knows angel things. He can recite universal constants, do virtually any sort of math, and he’s aware of strange, obscure stuff about the universe, the things angels just seem to know. His knowledge of the practical, however, sorely lacks.

The first time Sam sits down to watch a movie with the angel looking on, he has a dozen questions.

_“What is the purpose of this?”_ he asks. Sam can feel intrigue flaring, bright and warm against his skin, as the brilliant colors of CGI dance across the screen.

“It’s a movie, Gadreel,” Sam responds. “It’s entertainment.”

The angel stares through Sam’s eyes, fascinated. Sam does his best not to glance away from the screen without dropping popcorn everywhere.

_“How do they create these images? It seems rather impossible.”_

Sam chuckles. “It’s special effects. They do it on computers and stuff.”

_“Computers? Such as your laptop?”_

“Yeah, you know,” he gestures absently with his hand, “just with more powerful ones.”

He’s drawing a glare from Dean, who shushes him. “Dude, we’re watching a movie here,” he says, shaking his head.

When he thinks Sam isn’t watching, Cas gives him a knowing look.

Experiencing the world doesn’t always go so well. Gadreel despises the basement and the small, windowless storerooms housing books, files, and other items. When the angel regards a bricked-over window warily, a thread of trepidation fluttering through his limbs, Sam connects the dots.

“Does this remind you of…?” Sam lets his voice trail off. He doesn’t say ‘when you were locked up.’ He doesn’t have to. The angel probably hears it anyway.

_“Yes,”_ comes the unhappy answer, an anxious rumble that settles too heavy in Sam’s skin, bitter in his mouth like the taste of demon blood.

Sam makes a point to try and avoid the rooms. If duty leads him there, he props the door wide open while he’s inside, so there’s always an escape. The angel’s Grace hums steadily throughout his body, warm and grateful.

Sometimes, Gadreel has many questions, and Sam thinks this must be what Dean went through with Cas years earlier. Sam once thought it’d grow tiresome with time, though it never does. Eventually, Gadreel begins telling Sam things in return. Small secrets of fairies, scraps of angel wisdom, even the creation of the universe itself.

He’s never spoken of Eden, and Sam never asks. Sam gets it, he really does. It’s probably a painful subject for the angel. So when one day Gadreel does mention it, Sam almost chokes on his food.

_“Why do humans consume bovine lactose?”_ Gadreel asks as Sam pours milk over his cereal, clearly finding the prospect unpleasant. Sam’s somewhere in the middle of explaining the intricacies of how agriculture and beasts of burden led to the foundation of human civilization when Gadreel relates, in turn, how the Garden had been perfect, providing everything humanity needed.

It takes a moment for Sam to remember how to breathe after the angel, aflutter with concern, zaps the food out of his windpipe. Handy thing, that Grace.

He clears his throat, his face flushed. “Sorry, I…” The truth feels too embarrassing to say out loud, so he just tries to continue on as if nothing happened. “Uh, thanks for the rescue.” He clears his throat a second time. “So, it was like the ultimate vegan diet?”

If he could see Gadreel, the angel would squint at him in a very Cas-like way. _“Vegan?”_

“Oh, where you eat no animal products. You only consume plants.”

_“Ah. Then yes.”_

He says nothing else about the Garden, and Sam doesn’t ask. He worries briefly his curiosity is more than evident to the angel, but tries to push it from his mind. The bleed-through of thought and emotion remains something they’ll have to deal with until Sam’s healed.

Dean and Sam take turns harassing Crowley. Gadreel, not seeing the benefit of negotiating with the King of Hell, threatens to smite the demon to his face. Crowley just snickers, and afterwards starts trying out new nicknames for the angel, much to Gadreel’s chagrin.

Another time, when Sam turns on his laptop to do research, Gadreel stares through Sam’s eyes in fascination. _“How did this complex technology come to exist?”_ And Sam gives him a brief history of computers. He ends up using the Internet to fill in the gaps he doesn’t know, so he explains the basics of the Internet while he’s at it, too.

Gadreel then compares it to angel radio, and explains how latent energy in the fabric of the universe interacts with angelic Grace, allowing for communication even over vast distances.

One day, Sam peeks over Kevin’s shoulder as the boy rants over some obscure bit of Enochian he can’t decipher. Gadreel quickly relays the right translation to Sam, who gives it to Kevin.

After he writes it down, he gazes up at Sam, wide-eyed and just a bit excited. “Hey, what else does he know?”

Kevin remains the only one who hasn’t thrown some sort of a fit about the Gadreel’s presence. He probably doesn’t trust the angel completely, but he says it’s ‘insurance’ having an angel around so long as Crowley’s going to stay locked up in the basement.

Gadreel stirs in interest as Sam examines the angel tablet, and his lips curl upwards. He shrugs at Kevin, and points at his head. “Ask Gadreel. Maybe he knows something you need.”

Sam sits as Kevin asks question after question. Sometimes Gadreel answers and sometimes Sam does, but before anyone knows it, two hours flitter away on conversation. The angel doesn’t seem to mind the prophet’s endless inquiry one bit.

When they’re done, and Sam trots away, Gadreel’s voice quietly whispers to him. _“You see, Sam? I can be useful.”_

The statement seems to come out of nowhere, and Sam frowns in the empty hall. The angel has already retreated into his hiding spot, however, so there’s no opportunity to ask him what he meant.

Sam thinks about it for a while, and shakes his head. Gadreel said it so honestly, so hopefully. He’s not sure why, but it kind of makes Sam feel a little sorry for him.

 

* * *

 

Cas lets an exasperated sigh float in the air. “They’re not doing well, Dean. I don’t understand. I did everything the webpage told me to.”

Sam glances over his shoulder to the distant corner of the room, where Castiel and Dean hover over a few potted plants underneath a grow light. He turns back to the boxes, thumbing through old, crumbly paper to find the one he needs, only somewhat listening.

“I don’t know what to tell ya, Cas,” Dean says.

“I believe they need more heat,” Cas says after a pause. “Perhaps I can set up a greenhouse.”

“No way, man, it's too cold outside.” Dean pauses, thoughtful. “Maybe in Spring, if this angel-on-angel violence chills by then.”

Cas sighs dramatically. “I’m warded, Dean.”

“Hey, didn't stop that reaper chick from finding you.”

Sam finds the correct label for his box, and stands, gliding around the shelf to find it. It’s three boxes back, and even with Sam’s height, he has to step on his tip-toes to reach it. He grapples at the first box and sets it aside, stretching comically to reach the second.

Cas makes a sound akin to a groan, a habit he’s only picked up since becoming human. “I know. They’re going to die, and it’ll be my fault.” He sounds positively morose.

“Are you really getting upset over flowers, Cas?” Dean asks. A moment later, “All right, all right. I’m here, right? What should I do?”

Sam hisses with effort, but he can’t quite reach the second box and nothing presents itself as handy to step on. “Hey, Gadreel,” he grunts under his breath. “You couldn’t use your Grace and bring those boxes closer, could you?”

The angel doesn’t respond.

“I don’t think there’s anything we can do,” Cas continues. “Just water them, give them plenty of light, and plant food.”

Sam blinks, tuning out the other conversation. “Gadreel? You there?”

The angel is, in fact, present. Sam can feel that much by the warmth humming steadily in his chest. His mind simply isn’t anywhere focused on Sam.

“Gadreel,” he whispers again, still groping hopelessly for the box. “Gadreel!”

At the too-loud grunt, the angel’s attention snaps to Sam, though not without a startled flutter of Grace. Even Dean and Cas spin to face in his direction, their faces blocked by a row of boxes.

“Everything okay, man?” Dean calls.

“Yeah, sorry, didn’t mean to be so loud,” he replies with some embarrassment. He vaguely sees Dean shrug at Cas, and the two leave the room.

_“I am sorry, Sam,”_ Gadreel says. _“I was listening to their conversation. What do you need?”_

Sam makes another comical stretch for the second box, and fails. “I need the third box back,” he says, his voice coming out as a groan, “but I can’t reach it.”

Something between amusement and annoyance skitters down his spine, making him squirm from the coldness of it. His palm tingles, and the box he needs slides flush against his hand with more force than strictly necessary. Sam just chuckles, easily setting it upon the ground.

“Thanks. Sorry to _bother_ you.” He smiles, though, because the whole thing strikes Sam as funny, for some reason. The angel rumbles softly with similar amusement, so Sam brushes the whole thing aside.

He lugs the oversized boxes he doesn’t need back into place, and lumbers around the shelf, setting his box on the table.

_“It would be so simple to fix,”_ the angel says, his voice somewhat distant.

“Hm?” Sam hums, flipping through a dusty manila folder. “What would?”

_“Castiel’s plants.”_

Sam halts in his reading, thumb brushing against time-worn paper to mark his spot. The flowers sit nearby, so he sets the folder down, a piece of string left behind to mark his place.

The flowers _do_ look awful. Castiel may love these things, but he doesn’t have a green thumb.

Sam feels Gadreel observing the plants intently, his thoughts incomprehensible to Sam. “What’re you thinking about?” he asks.

He can feel the angel stretching, a soundless request for Sam to reach out and touch one of the plants. _“This stem here, it…”_

But Sam has no idea what Gadreel wants him to do, so before he even thinks it through, he gives the angel permission to use his body. Normally, he’s asleep if the angel takes any sort of control—though, that’s with his permission, too.

There’s a faint flare of Grace, but nothing seems to change. It’s only when his hand stretches towards the plant without his consent he realizes Gadreel has only taken control of his arm.

Huh. Can angels even do that? They can apparently do that.

A warm rush of Gadreel’s amusement unfurls within him, a soft noise lilting gently between his ears.

Sam feels his fingertips brushing against vellum leaves, plucking a few out, and repositioning the stems. When his arm moves to the next plant over, Sam remembers the angel can’t actually see what he’s doing unless Sam moves his head, too, and so he lets his eyes settle upon the next flowering plant. It’s more than odd, feeling the pull of his arm and trying to sync his eyes to the angel’s concentration, though somehow it works. The two fall into a strangely satisfying pattern of coordinating Sam’s body in tandem for the few minutes it takes the angel to finish his work.

Gadreel retreats, and Sam experimentally flexes his hand. The plants don’t actually appear any different to Sam’s eyes, but a feeling of distinct accomplishment thrums inside of him. The angel glows with more than a little satisfaction.

_“With a small amount of proper trimming and the procurement of substances not found in this artificial garden, these plants will grow soundly, even absent from their native, tropical environment,”_ he tells Sam. _“Castiel will be none the wiser to my interference.”_

Sam’s about to ask him how he knows so much about flowers when he knows almost nothing about anything else, but stops short. Eden. Right. Maybe he did a stint as an angelic botanist. Is that even a thing?

If the angel hears him, he says nothing. A low, passing ache twinges along his upper back. Damn, it’s starting to worry him. Maybe he overdid it with the boxes?

“Why not just tell Cas?” Sam asks, setting aside the phantom pain for now.

Gadreel remains silent for a long while. _“I believe he would not care for my assistance. He would rather his plants die.”_

Something heavy and uncomfortable settles in his stomach, because this has a troublesome parallel. “It’s his choice, right? Ask him. If he doesn’t want you saving his plants, then you shouldn’t.”

Gadreel considers this, the deeper meaning not lost upon him. After a long moment, something almost timid pulses under his skin. _“Even to save them from death?”_ he asks quietly.

Sam ruminates on his reply a moment. “He deserves a chance to say ‘yes’ to your assistance. Or ‘no,’ if he chooses.”

Gadreel contemplates this for a long moment, distress thrumming throughout his Grace, worry electric against his skin. And Sam knows the exact moment Gadreel fully understands, and feels the angel recoil in his skin as if he’d been struck.

_“Indeed, he does,”_ Gadreel tells Sam, his voice unsteady.

The angel slinks down inside of him, far deeper than he’s been in weeks, ever since Sam encouraged him to come out. His brief moment of pleasure in the face of the flowers has evaporated, lost and forgotten.

_“I did not wish to see him in distress when I could give aid.”_

Sam wets his lips. He thinks about pushing it further, but thinks he’s already made his point. So he lets it go.

The next day, Sam makes purposely places himself in the backroom when Cas tends to his flowers. He’s doing something wrong again, because Sam feels Gadreel’s irritation rippling across his skin as he watches. It’s sad, really, the way the angel itches to help but won’t just come out and ask. So Sam tugs at him gently, encouraging him to go _ask already_.

“Brother,” Gadreel says once he emerges, and Cas immediately halts, giving him a wary look. “You groom the wrong branches. Allow me to show you?” He reaches out, placing hesitant fingertips on the trimmers in his hand.

Sam worries for a moment, because his pointed, stormy blue glare suggests it’s all about to go bad. Cas glances back at the flowers and breathes deeply, rubbing at his face. A dark smudge of dirt remains behind, painting an uneven streak across his cheekbone. When he looks back to Gadreel, his eyes soften, and he nods, allowing the other angel to take the trimmers from his hands.

Gadreel spends several minutes explaining how Cas needs to treat each plant, flowering and otherwise. Sam passively listens. He hears Gadreel tell Cas he’s chosen particularly difficult tropical plants to care for, at least by human standards. When he’s finished, he gives Cas a faint smile, and retreats back within Sam.

“Well, uh…” Sam takes a step backward. “Good luck with the gardening?” He moves to grab his stuff and leave.

“Gadreel,” Cas calls out, back facing Sam. “Thank you.” His tone sounds forced, but not necessarily unkind.

As Sam walks away, he hears Gadreel’s voice call to him again: _“See? I can be useful, Sam.”  
_

 

* * *

 

One day, Dean blasts rock music through the entire bunker, echoing loud enough Kevin yells about it. Dean just grunts and turns it up, refusing to entertain anyone’s objections.

“Just get some headphones already!” the prophet shouts, but Dean doesn’t answer over the blare of Metallica.

When in another room, with the volume less piercing, Gadreel’s curiosity spreads whisper-soft, but insistent. _“Why does Dean listen to music at this volume? A sustained duration will prove harmful to his hearing.”_

Sam doesn’t actually know what’s got Dean in a pissy mood, so he shrugs. The angel hovers near the edge of his mind, requesting permission, pressing gently to come forward. It’s another one of those times Sam doesn’t see the harm in it, so he lets him. It’s not like he comes out often, or anything.

Gadreel turns to face Kevin. “Why is Dean, as Sam says, in a ‘pissy mood?’”

Kevin’s face screws up into quite a comical expression, ending with the kid roaring with laughter. Sam thinks it’s been too long since the kid laughed so richly.

“Oh, that?” Kevin gestures down the hallway between chuckles. “Dean’s having _boyfriend_ problems. That means we all suffer until he gets over it.”

This doesn’t clarify anything for Gadreel, who stares down the hall uncomprehending. Sam does the mental equivalent of chuckling, and he feels the angel’s displeasure settling low in his bones. He quickly reassures Gadreel it’s _Dean_ he’s laughing at, not the angel, and the unpleasantness clears a bit.

Seeing Gadreel’s confusion, Kevin attempts to clarify. “Him and Cas, you know?”

“Know what?”

The kid snorts, and it takes a moment before he catches his breath. “I know you’re an angel and all, but you’ve got to know about romance, right? When two people… you know?”

Gadreel stares back down the hallway, down to the room where Dean holes up, and Sam can practically hear the gears turning in the angel’s mind. Gadreel recalls how absolutely devastated Dean had felt when Cas died at the Reaper’s hand. He remembers Dean adamantly insisting Castiel stay at the bunker, in safety.

“Oh,” Gadreel finally says. “ _Oh_.” His head tilts, and Sam feels his lips draw up slightly, amusement flaring throughout his Grace. He turns back to Kevin. “Dean and Castiel are in love?”

Kevin just smiles warmly, and Sam can feel Gadreel glow just a little from the kind gesture. Kevin’s been nicer to Gadreel than Dean and Cas both, and Gadreel doesn’t feel awkward or uncomfortable in his presence as he does in virtually everyone else’s (including Sam’s, sometimes).

Though, Sam wouldn’t put it past Dean and Kevin to have some kind of angel spell cooked up behind his back, just in case. ‘Paranoid’ remains an essential part of a hunter’s identity.

“Yeah,” Kevin says, chuckling again and crossing his arms, “Dean’s kicking off a fit of heterosexual panic. If we go looking, I’m sure we’ll find Cas in the kitchen, drowning his sorrow in ice cream, because Dean can’t get over himself.”

Any mirth Sam has goes still. It’s kind of sad, really. Dean’s having an overblown bout of machismo, while Castiel doesn’t know what to say or how to handle it—or how to handle his own humanity, for that matter.

The angel furrows his brow. _“Heterosexual panic?”_ he asks Sam quietly.

_“Yeah, Dean’s freaking out because he’s got a thing for Cas. So he’s probably about to go out and hook up with a woman to prove his straightness to himself.”_

The words float about in the angel’s head, swirling in a dizzy mass of concentration. _“Heterosexual?”_ After a beat, _“Hetero, from the Greek heteros, a prefix meaning ‘different or another.’ Why is this prefix utilized? It seems evident if one engages in sexual activity, another individual will be involved.”_

Any other time, Sam would spare a moment of awe (and envy) over the angel’s recently acquired, near-encyclopedic knowledge of ancient language. Explaining human constructs of sexuality, however, has his stomach done up in a knot. For the moment, he skips right over the detail that one can partake in sexual activity all alone, because given Gadreel’s curious nature, it will probably lead to questions Sam _doesn’t_ want to answer.

“You really don’t know about sexuality?”

_“Of course I know of sexuality. Eve and Adam expressed their love in such a manner.”_

When Sam thinks about it, it’s not so surprising he doesn’t know the finer points and distinctions. Apparently, he hasn’t read any books on _that_ just yet.

_“Heterosexuality—it’s also called being straight—is when people want sex with someone of the opposite gender. Homosexuality is when two people of the same gender want sex with each other. There’s also bisexuality, which is when you're attracted to both genders.”_

Gadreel mulls over it. _“Why not simply refer to it as sexuality? Why does gender matter when one is in love?”_

He makes an outstanding point, one Sam personally wishes everyone held.

_“There’s a stigma around same-sex relationships. It’s not one of humanity’s shining qualities, but… yeah. It’s changing slowly, but not fast enough.”_ He pauses. _“It’s terrible and it keeps people apart, sometimes. People fall in love, but the stigma and cultural rules, you know… Sometimes, people don’t ever get over those things.”_

Gadreel remains silent a long moment, a cold, rattling ache expanding in his gut. “That is… distressing to hear,” he says aloud. “If two individuals share love, such a thing should not keep them apart.”

“Yeah, isn’t it sad?” Kevin answers, oblivious to the fact Gadreel wasn’t talking to him. “Sam and I keep hoping they’ll figure it out, but so far, no luck.”

“I do not understand,” Gadreel says, his attention turning to the boy. “Castiel is not male.” He gazes at Kevin as if his intense stare could make the world understand him. “Gender is a human construction angels do not possess.”

Kevin snorts. “Yeah, but your _vessels_ do.” He makes a gesture at Gadreel. “I mean, look at you. You showed up on Earth, walked around in a guy, and went to the hospital, where you ended up with Sam, another guy.”

Sam listens as the angel thinks it through. “I had not realized.” He tilts his head. “But I am not male, either.”

“Humans don’t think that way,” Kevin says. “As long as you’re possessing a dude, most humans are going to think of you as a dude.”

After a moment, Gadreel looks away and nods once. “I see. Thank you, Kevin Tran.”

The angel doesn’t relinquish control, and instead stares down the hallway as if committing it to memory. His thoughts swirl like a dust storm, unfathomable and more vast than the prairie outside.

_“Thank you, Sam. I believe I can provide assistance with this situation, now.”_

Sam would sigh if he could. _“Good luck with that,”_ he responds dryly.

Nervousness coils against Sam’s ribs as Gadreel steels himself and marches down the hallway, reentering the room with Dean. He doesn’t acknowledge him at first, if he even sees him. Gadreel walks over to the music player, and when he can’t quite determine how to cut if off, he simply motions with his hand and uses his Grace. The music dies instantly.

A chair clatters to the floor behind him. He turns just in time to see Dean leaping to his feet, jaw set and teeth clenched. “Dude, what the hell?”

“You act as a fool, Dean Winchester,” Gadreel tells him.

Dean’s face drains of color instantly. “Zeke?”

“Castiel is an angel, not a man,” he continues. “Despite his powerless state, you should remember he is not human.”

“Uh…”

“He is neither male nor female. You should not allow narrow, human constructs of gender impede your love for my brother.”

Dean stares dumbly, his mouth opening and closing a few times. “I told you before, man, I don’t really do the whole ‘love’ thing.”

Gadreel regards him sourly. “No, you do not _say_ ‘love.’ To refrain from use of the word does not mean you are not, in fact, expressing love.”

There’s a long, awkward moment of silence as Dean seems for all the world speechless.

“Love is precious,” he tells Dean. “It is a honor for each of you to love the other.” He pauses. “I believe a human might say, ‘Get over yourself, already.’”

Gadreel lifts his hand, and the blaring music resumes. The angel retreats all at once within Sam, quick as a flash. Dean sees this changing of the guard, and Sam can see his brother mouthing his name, sound lost in the music.

Sam grips the table, white-knuckled, and howls, doubled over, in hysterical laughter. It _would_ take an angel with no use for human hang-ups to finally strike Dean speechless. For all of his and Kevin’s subtle commenting, there’s something to be said for such directness.

“Dude, what are you waiting for?” Sam sputters between bouts of chuckling. “Go talk it out with Cas!” He stands, holding his aching stomach, and leaves the room, still laughing like he’s lost his mind.

A few minutes later, the music stops. Sam peeks around the corner and sees Dean and Cas sitting on the couch, staring at each other intently and inching closer every second. They’re talking, but too far away for Sam to hear.

He has to stifle a satisfied hum, because they might get their act together. He turns away and leaves before he accidentally sees something he doesn’t want to.

“Good job, Gadreel,” he tells the angel.

Sam can _feel_ Gadreel’s smile, soft threads of Grace sweeping through him, warm as a roaring fireplace . A slight prickle of pride tickles at his skin, too, as he seems to realize he’s done a Very Important Thing.

Without even thinking, Sam lets his mind brush against the warmth of the angel’s Grace. It’s like sinking down into a vibrant thunderstorm brimming full of life itself.

For just for a moment, Sam lingers, and Gadreel doesn’t seem to mind at all.

 

* * *

 

Sam lies on his back, rubbing hands over his eyes. His body feels worn and his mind frayed, exhaustion aching through weary muscles. A headache dully throbs behind his eyes, somehow worse now he’s attempting to sleep.

Gadreel stirs at the influx of pain, concern humming low against his spine. Considering his dire health and Gadreel’s weakened state, it all seems rather silly. It’s almost as if the angel worries about Sam’s petty comforts.

Sam thinks maybe he does, though he’s not sure why.

“I’m fine,” he says abortively. Reflexively.

Gadreel does not exactly ignore him, but he frets. Sam feels him doing a quick check of his entire body, his attention flittering everywhere in a cloudy muddle that carries a shade of worry. When he settles upon the headache, he doesn’t soothe it away immediately, but he does draw Sam’s attention to it, expectantly.

It makes Sam smile faintly. He’d tell Gadreel he doesn’t need every tiny problem fixed because it’s sort of embarrassing, but this angel has little use for human hang-ups. So he just shrugs his consent.

“As long as you’re already there,” he says.

The angel whispers something unintelligible, maybe Enochian, and Sam feels his headache melt away in a cooling, quiet rush, blessed relief in its wake.

“Mmm. Thanks.” He wiggles on the bed, letting his body sink deeper into the mattress. Everything feels better, now, even his tired muscles and threadbare nerves.

_“It would be simpler if you informed me of these issues,”_ Gadreel chides softly. _“When I am not present in the outside world with you, I cannot sense your discomfort unless it is dire.”_

Sam throws an arm over his eyes, a huff of air escaping his lips. “Yeah, I’m sure you love being stuck in there, just to have me bother you with petty stuff.” He can’t keep the sharp, sarcastic edge out of his voice. “Like you don’t have any healing of your own to do.”

Gadreel remains silent a long moment. _“Your discomfort is not a petty matter.”_

Sam’s breath halts, his eyes snapping open. An unspoken ‘to me’ hangs in the space at the end of Gadreel’s words, and Sam has no idea what to even say to that. Maybe he’s just imagining it. So he just goes another direction entirely.

“Gadreel, why….” he hesitates, inhaling deeply. “Why did you pretend to be Ezekiel? Dean and I, we wouldn’t have known any different if you’d used your real name.”

The angel sighs quietly, a thrum of discontent seeping throughout his Grace. _“I was hiding. It seemed a wise decision, at the time.”_

“Yeah, but what were you going to do when you ran into the real Ezekiel?” Sam frowns. “Cas _knows_ him.”

Gadreel remains silent so long a time, Sam thinks he might not answer. Finally, flushed embarrassment pools in his gut. _“I did not think that far ahead.”_

Sam’s lips quirk. “You have a tendency not to think things through, don’t you? Like earlier, when you just marched up to Dean and told him what you thought?”

A flood of sourness strikes him ice sharp, causing Sam to grin. Despite sharing a body, they can still misunderstand each other.

“I’m not making fun of you!” Sam defends. “I promise! I’m just saying, it was kind of a bad plan.”

He worries for a moment he might have finally offended Gadreel, but amusement, bright and tingling, slowly warms his entire body. _“I suppose it was.”_

 

* * *

 

The next night, Gadreel asks Sam if he might use his body for a moment to pray. It’s a simple enough request, so Sam acquiesces.

A moment later, his body stands from the edge of the bed, spine rigid and posture immaculate.

“Thank you, Sam,” Gadreel says, as he slowly drops to his knees, clasping his hands together.

Sam sort of fidgets within his own skin, uncomfortable. He shouldn’t stick around for this. He supposes he could hightail it to the library-shaped headspace they share. He hasn’t visited it since learning about Gadreel, after all.

_“You want me to wander off, or…?”_

Gadreel lifts his head, eyes opening a sliver. “That is unnecessary,” he says. “Perhaps you would care to join me?”

Sam doesn’t mean to recoil from the suggestion, but he does all the same, and it doesn’t go unnoticed. He reels it in, though, because he’s not going to rain on Gadreel’s parade if the angel wants to pray.

He’d stopped praying years ago, after Death had freed his soul from Lucifer’s Cage. God didn’t seem to care anymore, and those who might hear his prayers were probably the sort who’d come and kill him. No, he’d prayed unfailingly his entire life, but no more. It had never done him any good at all.

_“I’ll pass. But knock yourself out.”_

The angel radiates gratitude all the same, and closes his eyes again.

“Father, it is I, Gadreel, Your son.” He shifts on his legs a bit. “My words lift up to You from the lips of my vessel, Sam Winchester, for whom I pray for safety and health. I ask also for the health of his brother, Dean Winchester, the prophet Kevin Tran, and the angel Castiel.” He pauses a moment, a somber mood overtaking him. “I pray I may have the opportunity to earn their trust and friendship in the future, despite my many shortcomings.”

Sam _really_ feels he shouldn’t listen in, now. It’s private and more than a little depressing. And yet, Gadreel did invite him to pray with him, and while Sam can’t bring himself to pray, he can’t bring himself to look away while Gadreel does, either.

“I thank You for Your many blessings upon me, Father,” he says without a shred of irony. “I thank You for surviving the Fall. I thank You for the vessel I inhabit, for his tolerance and kind spirit, and ask that I may use my Grace wisely to heal Sam until he is recovered.”

Sam wonders if anyone has ever given thanks for his own existence in the world before. Dean probably has, or would, if he prayed to anyone other than Cas.

Gadreel pauses, glancing up. Sam wonders if he’s thinking too loud, if he’s interrupting the angel. But he just closes his eyes again.

“As always, I submit to Your will, Father, whatever it may be. Please protect those who harbor me and show me compassion, and do not punish them for their goodness towards me, your weak son.” He wets his lips, and Sam can feel a million terrible, agonizing thoughts echoing in the angel’s Grace. “Amen.”

Gadreel stands, gracefully extending to Sam’s full height.

Sam watches in astonishment. After everything Gadreel has experienced, he thanks God for scraps and minutia, asks for the well-being of others, but not himself. He can’t believe he’s praying to the guy who locked him up.

“He is my Father, Sam Winchester, and I am an angel,” Gadreel says plainly, as if it explains everything.

In a single fluid motion, he sinks down on the edge of the bed, and returns the body to Sam. Sam’s about to disagree with the angel, to ask him more questions, but Gadreel curls up somewhere faint and distant before he can. Sam takes it as a signal he doesn’t want to discuss it.

The dull throb in his back again spikes again, clenching between his shoulder blades in a spasm. As before, it disappears almost as soon as it hits.

Every night after, the angel asks for permission to use Sam’s body to pray. And Gadreel prays with Sam’s voice and Sam’s hands, down on Sam’s knees, and it’s always the same prayer, over and over again. After a while, it becomes clear to Sam that Gadreel seems to think being allowed to enjoy anything at all is a blessing from God. He stops watching him pray entirely after that.

The pain isn’t his, but it hurts all the same.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'd like to add a small AN here. I am fully aware there are more than three sexualities, and that gender and biological sex are not the same thing. However, I've written the section the way I did for two reasons. One, Gadreel is honestly not going to know the difference until someone explains it to him (he's been locked up for most of time). Two, Sam himself, while I like to think he may have an awareness of different sexualities beyond the standard gender binary, probably hasn't had time to think about it too deeply (what with the saving of the world multiple times these past few years and all).


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to my beta reader, [Furf](http://wormwoodworms.tumblr.com/). This fic would only have been a shadow of itself without your amazing help.

Dean spends an inordinate amount of time in the garage, teaching Cas about maintaining the Impala—though it’s questionable whether they’re actually working.

Though the instincts of a protective sibling flutter through Gadreel’s Grace occasionally, he remains hopeful (and curious) about the progression of their relationship. Sam’s thrilled, sure, but he has zero desire to accidentally walk in on his brother in the middle of sex.

In the interim, Gadreel tends to Castiel’s flowers—with permission—and coaxes them back to vibrant life. Once dull and limp, now the blossoms shine bright and vivid under the angel’s attention. His Grace hums with satisfaction at the sight of it.

It makes Sam wonder about the Garden, though he doesn’t ask. It’s Sam’s little rule for himself. No matter how curious he is, he won’t ask about something with potential for raw, unfiltered pain. If Gadreel wants to talk about it, he’ll talk. He’s given Sam a scrap before, so there’s a chance he might again.

Kevin barely sleeps. He spends so long working on the angel tablet one day he snaps, repeating “falafel” over and over again, shivering like a twig in the wind, drawing in on himself even as he sweats.

Cas comes running down the hallway to fetch Sam and Gadreel. Seized with alarm, Sam hands the reigns over to Gadreel, who attempts to soothe Kevin’s pain. In the midst of the boy’s babbling, as Dean and Cas look on worriedly, Gadreel presses his palm gently against Kevin’s forehead. Closing his eyes, he reaches out with Grace, sweeping feather-light within the prophet’s bruised mind.

Kevin stops his fevered trembling, his voice growing still. He slumps over into Gadreel’s arms, head crashing on his shoulder, only half-conscious. The motion surprises the angel, but he clasps an arm around the boy’s shoulders in a steady grip.

“Th’nks, Ga’r’el,” Kevin slurs, voice muffled in the fabric of Sam’s shirt. A few moments later, there’s wetness seeping through as the boy cries in exhaustion. “I want it to be over. I just have to keep working. It’ll be over, then.”

Kevin probably has no idea what he’s even saying. Gadreel’s hand flattens against his back, and all at once, a deep, stabbing burn tears through his Grace like a white-hot blade. A flicker of something flashes before Sam’s mind, half-remembered and lonelier than the most barren desert, before the angel pulls Kevin closer, rubbing a single, gentle circle on his back.

“I know how you feel, Kevin Tran,” he whispers. “For now, you must rest. I can offer you sleep free of your nightmares, if you wish.”

Kevin makes a noise, something unintelligible even to the angel, and nods weakly, head bobbing like his spine might snap. The hand resting on his back slides up to palm the back of his head, and another whisper-smooth press of Grace bleeds into Kevin’s body.

The boy goes slack, limbs loose and relaxed as Gadreel holds him, still cupping the back of his head. Something miserable, a horrid sort of déjà vu, fluctuates throughout Sam’s body again. It’s stilted, as though Gadreel pointedly tries not to remember it.

“He all right?” Dean asks, the fine lines of his face creased, eyes solemn.

“For the moment, yes,” Gadreel answers him. “I regret I am too weakened to heal him entirely, but I have placed him in a deep slumber.” He glances briefly at Cas before turning back to Dean. “He requires more substantial rest, however.”

Sam passes on a message, which Gadreel relays. “Sam says ‘Kevin needs a vacation.’”

Dean nods thoughtfully. “I promised the little nerd some time up in Branson, Missouri. If he’s good enough when he wakes up, I’ll take him up for some alone time.”

Though the angel shows nothing but a calm and steady exterior, Sam can feel how much healing Kevin has weakened him. His Grace flutters, not unlike a warped candle nearly out of wick to burn. Sam feels no pain, but he has the distinct impression Gadreel does.

Gadreel slides an arm under Kevin’s legs, repositions his torso against his own, and lifts him with ease. Secondhand, it feels bizarre to Sam, as though he holds the weight of a pillow, not a man.

“What’s wrong with your Grace?” Cas asks, perhaps perceptive of some visual clue Sam doesn’t notice.

Gadreel blinks, because even now Cas doesn’t usually talk to him if he can avoid it.

“I am barely at half strength,” he answers. “Every time I use my power, it weakens me further, and I am able to do less.” He glides down the hallway with Kevin in his arms, weaving his way to the bedrooms as the other men follow.

Dean frowns, the tired lines of his face betraying his worry. “What about Sam? If you’re so weak, is he—.”

“I will not allow harm to come to Sam. I promise you this, Dean.” Something fierce and almost protective briefly flares along the angel’s Grace, so swift Sam thinks he might have imagined it.

“If you continue to exhaust your Grace, you’ll harm yourself,” Cas says, a thread of concern in his voice.

“Do not worry,” Gadreel replies as he enters Kevin’s bedroom, setting the boy down upon the sheets with extreme care, as if he’ll shatter like glass. “Even damaged, my Grace can sustain Sam.”

Sam wants to cross his arms, to frown, but his body doesn’t listen. _“I think you missed the point, Gadreel. They’re worried about you.”_

The angel exhales a soft, harsh huff of air as he tucks a thick blanket snug around Kevin. _“I doubt that.”_ He leaves the room, flips off the light switch, and pulls the door shut. It creaks, releasing an unwelcome, atrocious noise in the quiet.

As they stand in the hallway, Dean’s expression has grown more severe. “Yeah, but Zeke—Gad, I’m gonna call you Gad, okay?—what about you? Are you gonna be all right?”

Surprise pulses through Sam’s bones. _“Told ya,”_ he teases gently.

Gadreel doesn’t answer Sam, not directly. Something tired and icy sweeps through him, and Sam doesn’t know how, but he _knows_ it has nothing to do with the angel’s mood. The angel’s breathing quickens, shallow and rapid; never mind the weirdness of Gadreel needing to breathe at all, anyway. His Grace feels dim and wafer-brittle to Sam, stretching thin through his limbs.

“What about me?” Gadreel answers Dean. “I came to answer your prayer, Dean Winchester. I offered you and your brother my strength.” He pauses, breathing deep. “I regret I have so little of it to offer at the moment, but it belongs to you and Sam, nonetheless.”

Dean’s expression sours more, if possible. “I know. I believe you already, man. Just take care of yourself too, okay?”

Gadreel thanks Dean with a cold, removed sort of politeness.

 _“Come on, Gadreel. He means it,”_ Sam tells him.

_“Sam, he only says this because if I falter, you will die.”_

Sam’s attempts to convince him otherwise fall on metaphorical deaf ears. And beyond the pain, something _else_ troubles the angel. Something ancient and weighty and dark that leaves Gadreel curling up inside, away from prying eyes.

A single word emerges from this cloudy hollow: Abner.

Sam’s pretty sure he wasn’t meant to hear that.

Sam doesn’t mean to pry. He really doesn’t. And it’s not exactly prying when he’s tuned into Gadreel’s unfiltered thoughts whenever the angel comes out. Whatever he’s feeling, it hurts, and far beyond the pain of exhausting his Grace.

Sam reaches out gently, the desire to soothe this pain overpowering. Gadreel has never mentioned the name ‘Abner’ before, and from the roiling sorrow the angel can’t hide, the topic cannot hold pleasant memories.

Gadreel pulls away from Sam’s reach, and burrows deeper.

The reaction surprises Sam—though, given the angel’s prior inclination to hide, it shouldn’t—so Sam pushes no further. Gadreel gives him his privacy, after all, so it’s the least Sam can do to give the same in return.

 _“If you want or need to talk about anything, I’m here,”_ Sam offers.

Gadreel says nothing, but a faint hum of acknowledgement flutters against Sam’s ribcage.

 

* * *

 

Dean takes Kevin on a vacation to Missouri for a few days, proudly proclaiming he’s all set with pay-per-view, food, and music. Gadreel does not see how it all adds up to a pleasant respite, but Sam assures him Kevin’s a teenager, so he’ll have a great time with his privacy, porn, and junk food. The angel frowns, but takes his word for it.

Sam comes up with an idea to try and convert a console into an angel detector of sorts. He traces wires through the floor and finds an old, colossal computer in the basement. It’s not their area of expertise, so they call an expert.

Gadreel’s anxiety over a guest dropping in runs hot enough to make Sam sweat, but he does his best to assure the angel Charlie Bradbury poses no threat. In fact, she’s damn awesome and will probably be over the moon to meet a real angel. Yet, the angel’s nerves don’t settle in the slightest until she actually arrives at the bunker.

Gadreel spends a lot of his time figuratively wringing his hands. Sam doesn’t blame him, really, but there’s so much bleed-through it gets uncomfortable. It’s something he thinks he’ll have to work on with Gadreel, eventually.

Gadreel remains quiet as he simply observes Sam’s and Dean’s interactions with the woman. As Sam had promised, she’s all sunshine and brilliance, and the angel’s worry melts away. Maybe the fact Sam adores Charlie influences him, too.

Charlie talks about losing her job, LARPing and hunting. While Sam and Dean question her endlessly on her new role as a hunter, Sam feels Gadreel’s intrigue of this small, fascinating woman grow. It’s not long before he’s asking Sam questions, wanting to know more about her.

Sam gets a bit tongue-tied talking to both Charlie and Gadreel, as he hasn’t yet mastered the art of holding two opposing conversations at the same time. In way of compromise, he summons memories for the angel to peruse, who takes a moment to process them. Gadreel quiets, at least until Charlie mentions Becky.

Sam stutters and cringes, and feels his face burning hot. Anticipating questions, he throws more memories at the angel before he even gets the chance to ask. Not like he can keep much of a secret right now, anyway.

Unlike virtually everyone else who hears the story, Gadreel isn’t amused in the least, which relieves Sam, in a way. In fact, the angel smolders quietly about it for a few minutes, as if personally affronted.

Hah. Gadreel, the angelic sentry, ready to defend Sam Winchester’s honor. He’s probably the only one.

It’s quiet for a while as Charlie ducks under the console, humming a tune.

 _“Sam,”_ Gadreel’s voice softly calls to him. _“You said ‘yes’ to Becky.”_ He pauses. _“But it was under the compulsion of magic.”_

Sam sighs. _“Yeah. I said 'I do.' We got married. We got an annulment. I lost two weeks of time and woke up tied to a bed, confused as hell, and had to immediately jump into talking her into not drugging me again.”_ He shakes his head. _“I like to pretend the whole thing didn’t happen.”_

Gadreel mulls on it a while. _“Why did you worry I’d find it amusing? To have someone betray your trust is not humorous.”_

He shrugs. _“Most people laugh when they hear the story.”_

The angel considers it all. _“So you have been deprived of your free will before.”_ He pauses a beat. _“Tricked into a ‘yes,’ for example.”_

_“Yeah.”_

_“Like what I did. I did not trust you in the beginning, and also deprived you of a choice.”_

Sam shakes his head. _“You’re not like Becky, Gadreel.”_

_“I fail to see the difference.”_

Sam holds the air in his lungs a moment. _“You didn’t do it for bad reasons. You were trying to help. Becky was being selfish.”_

A hum of distress itches across his skin. _“I believe it matters only that I did it.”_

Sam stands quietly, watching as Dean leans over the ancient computer, chatting with Charlie. _“You know, Gadreel,”_ he says, _“I’ve made bad mistakes before trying to do the right thing. I drank demon blood to get strong enough to kill Lilith—she was a demon, Lucifer’s first. I trusted another demon to help me find a way to get my brother out of Hell, and she led me by the nose until I accidentally started the Apocalypse. People died because of me.”_ He leans against the wall and sighs. _“I still have demon blood in me, probably.”_ The edges of his lips quirk, though it’s bitter. _“It was all to make me a good vessel for Lucifer.”_ He pauses. _“You did know that, right? That I’m Lucifer’s true vessel?”_

He expects the angel to recoil, to express disgust. Gadreel does neither. _“I suspected. I knew you were once his vessel, but not that you were his true vessel.”_ He pauses a moment. _“It explains why I am more powerful in your body.”_

Sam sighs. _“That was supposed to be my high calling in life: to be a suit for an archangel.”_

Somewhere deep inside, Sam feels Gadreel sigh. _“Sam, the content of your blood does not constitute who you are any more than the rest of your body. Being a vessel—even Lucifer’s—says nothing about your character. It means_ only _that your body is capable of housing the power of an archangel.”_ He pauses a beat. _“Your soul is that which matters, and rest assured, you have the brightest, purest soul I have ever seen.”_

Sam’s heart nearly stops. He can’t even reply. What could he even say to that?

_“And if the demon blood troubles you, I can eliminate it before I leave. The amount is minuscule.”_

_“I… You would do that?”_

Warmth pulses through his Grace, unfurling inside his ribcage. _“Indeed. It will be simple.”_

_“But why?”_

_“I would like to earn your trust,”_ he answers, a bright, hopeful flush of Grace threading throughout his limbs. _“Perhaps one day, I can.”_

 

* * *

 

Charlie works in earnest for about an hour, as Gadreel looks on intently through Sam’s eyes. The sounds of scraping metal and the clacking of a keyboard slowly draw to a close, and her voice rises from beneath the console.

“These files are encrypted. This is gonna take a while,” she stands and sighs dramatically. “So, takeout? Sleepover? Braid each other’s hair?”

The sheer confusion and puzzlement flaring through Gadreel’s Grace makes Sam bellow with laughter. Charlie regards him uncomfortably for a split second until Sam waves his hand at her. “No, it’s just me. It’s a long story.”

She relaxes and shrugs. “I did say this would take a while.”

Sam considers it, and when Gadreel doesn’t object, he smiles. “Well, I’ve got an idea.” He pauses. “But you haven’t met our other residents, yet.”

“Oh, yeah!” she chirps. “Cas, the angel, right?” She bounces on her heels, clapping her hands together. “I know you said he was Graceless now and everything, but… dude, an _angel_! It’s not magical, but close!” She’s wearing a face-splitting grin. “Let’s go meet him now!”

Dean snorts a bit, his expression fond. “There’s someone else here, too,” he tells her.

“Oh… Well, if they like medieval fantasy and sci-fi, then the more the merrier!” she chirps.

Gadreel actually frets. Sam almost laughs.

“So, you know how angels work, right? They take—.”

“—vessels. The heavenly kind of possession, that sort of thing,” she cuts him off, looking mock-taken aback. “Yeah, I got it.”

“Well,” Sam says, “There’s another angel here, inside of me. He’s helping me out and healing up himself. He doesn’t take over often, and just watches from time to time.”

Her smile fades, lips parted. “There’s an angel in you right now?”

Sam nods.

Her eyes crinkle at the edges, gleaming with a wicked air. “It’s _inside_ you?”

Sam nods again, his head tilting a bit.

“And it watches from time to time?”

Sam’s smile fades, his brow furrowing. He nods again.

Charlie snorts. “Kinky.”

Sam almost sputters, falling over himself to explain how it’s _not like that_ before his brain catches up to the fact Charlie’s just teasing him.

Gadreel understands, somehow, and finds it mildly amusing. There’s an unspoken, mock-exasperated comment about humans before he stills. It makes Sam smile, and wonder. How much good humor has Gadreel truly experienced in his long life?

“Seriously, though,” Charlie asks, “The friendly kind of angel?”

Sam smiles, and nods. “Best kind you could hope for.”

The angel freezes, surprise cascading throughout the Grace in his entire body. Gadreel seems shocked Sam would have anything nice to say about him.

Sam sighs softly. Yet another thing the two of them have to work on.

Charlie’s lips twitch before her entire face blooms in excitement. “That’s cool! I mean, I know the angels right now are all being kind of dicks and all, but still! A friendly angel!” She pauses, and all at once seems wary. “Is he watching right now? Can he hear me?”

 _“Wanna talk to her?”_ Sam asks, playing off of Gadreel’s curiosity.

Gadreel hesitates. _“Is it acceptable?”_

Sam answers by pulling at Gadreel, tugging him forward and out of his hiding place. It’s become a practiced dance, as he’s gotten much better at pulling the angel’s Grace-strings over the months. Gadreel expands in a bright sweep of Grace, while Sam feels himself drift backwards, even as the light consumes. Charlie gasps about the time Sam’s eyesight goes blue-white with Grace. His sight returns to normal an instant later, and he goes to blink, but can’t.

A few months ago, Sam had felt disconcerted and ill in these rare moments, when Grace would expand and fill him more wholly. With time, he’s become used to it. In fact, it’s somewhat of an adrenaline rush when the angel takes his body without dulling Sam’s mind. It’s a flush racing lightning-quick under cold skin; a tingle worrying his fingertips. It feels like leaping off the side of a cliff and discovering he’s feather-light and drifting in midair.

“I am Gadreel,” the angel says, and offers a handshake, a move he’s picked up from movies and endless questions to Sam.

She grins so brightly she might as well have just won the lottery. “Oh wow! Oh my gosh!” She grabs his outstretched hand with both of hers in a powerful grip, and shakes vigorously. Gadreel, pleasantly surprised, allows his hand to move freely. “I’m Charlie! Charlie Bradbury!”

She glances over her shoulder to Dean, and squeals. “A real angel!” She turns back to Gadreel. “Something supernatural that’s not a monster. No need for holy oil!”

Sam feels his lips turn upwards in a slight smile. “I assure you, the holy oil is not necessary. Though, should it be needed, Dean Winchester will certainly not hesitate to ‘deep-fry’ me, as it were.”

Sam’s jaw would drop open if it could. He feels the angel glowing warm, his eyes crinkling, just short of a chuckle. It had been Dean’s original threat—to ‘dunk him in holy oil and deep-fry an angel’ if things went wrong. And now, Gadreel’s making light of it, and actually thinks it’s funny.

Maybe Sam can’t gape, but Dean certainly does. “Holy freakin’ shit, Gad. Did you just make a joke?”

Charlie laughs (and Sam does too, from his vantage point). And for the first time since he’s been in Sam, Gadreel _really_ smiles—bright and pleased and happy.

“It is my great honor to meet a woman of such incredible intellect,” he continues. “Though I do not know how to braid hair or how to sleepover or takeout, I would enjoy joining you in your festivities, if it is permissible.”

“Oh no, no, no… No, I mean yes, of _course_ you can!” she says so fast her words slur together. “Those are all expressions! But I can teach you how to braid! And you have a sleepover. It’s when you and a bunch of friends spend the night together and do things like watch movies and eat bad food and have fun!”

Gadreel doesn’t understand a thing she’s just said, but goes along with it anyway. “Oh. I see.”

“And Sam’s hair is totally long enough to braid, so I’ll braid your hair and I’ll teach you how to braid mine!” she says cheerily, though her eyes flash with a hint of uncertainty.

“I… all right,” Gadreel answers, tilting his head, attempting to piece together what he’s just agreed to. Sam thinks he’ll double over in laughter (and his body isn’t even laughing), though he firmly tells Gadreel _no one_ gets to braid his hair, thank you very much.

Dean absolutely loses it at Gadreel’s confused answer—he’s been snickering since Gadreel’s joke—and turns away as he trembles and gasps for air between bouts of laughing. Sam hasn’t heard Dean laugh so freely in… well, he can’t even remember how long.

Charlie smiles like the first rays of summer, and it warms Gadreel to the roots of his Grace. And it’s not Sam she directs her radiance toward, but Gadreel, and it makes all the difference to him.

“I must confess, I do not understand,” Gadreel finally says. “Everyone is laughing, and Sam is adamant no one shall braid his hair.”

A renewed fit of hysterical laughter tears loose from Dean, who at this point leans heavily against the wall, his hands holding his stomach. For all of the issues they still have to sort through, it’s such a wonderful sight.

“Sam!” Charlie chides, having given into the madness of laughter herself, “Don’t be a party crasher! These are _important_ _things_ we have to teach your angel!”

Sam gets a hold of himself, sarcastically thinking, _“Whatever Charlie. My hair is not a part of this commitment.”_ Which Gadreel goes on to repeat verbatim. Oops.

Charlie makes an interesting noise between a howl and a gasp, tears streaming down her face as she gasps between peals of mirth.

The room’s laughter continues, and just as Sam finally gets a grip on himself, he feels something hot and bright rising to the surface. Gadreel’s face splits open and laughter bubbles out of _his_ mouth, too. It’s funny to him because everyone everyone else laughs and he knows he and Sam are part the joke somehow. But it’s fond, not unkind, and he enjoys it.

Sam finds himself struck with the sound of Gadreel’s laughter. He’s never heard the angel laugh before. It feels so good to hear and he doesn’t even know why.

An intense chill rushes through his skin, something deep within welling up with powerful force, and it doesn’t come from Sam at all. As laugher spills from Gadreel’s lips, mingling with the sound of Charlie’s and Dean’s, gooseflesh rises on Sam’s skin. Profound relief ripples throughout Grace, along with a sharp rush of joy, and something bittersweet as well.

He feels like he belongs somewhere. He feels _welcome_.

It’s the sheer joy of companionship with others, the joy of not sitting all alone in cage, trapped in lockup. The others continue on, but Sam’s laughter has evaporated as he observes Gadreel. He feels the pleasant rumble of the angel’s mirth shaking his limbs and heating his face.

And all at once, it almost goes bad. A spike of fear seizes the angel, a wave of frigid anguish flowing through his Grace. Because _this_ , all of it, is impermanent. Gadreel remembers everything he’s come to enjoy and cherish will disappear when he finishes healing Sam. They’ll send him away, and he’ll again dwell in solitude.  
  
Gadreel’s laughter stills, and once jovial tears sting at the edges of his eyes, threatening to turn into real tears instead.

Sam knows he has to intervene, somehow, before this turns into a mess. He doesn’t know exactly what he’s doing or what he’s searching for, he just _feels_ the angel’s Grace within, and acts.

It’s not like before, when his mind had brushed feather-light against the intensity of Gadreel’s Grace. No, this time, Sam reaches out and weaves a part of himself _around_ the angel’s Grace, winding around the light and bright warmth which make up the core of Gadreel, and he offers comfort. He thinks of calmness and happiness and every soothing thing he can dredge up, and gives it to the angel.

Gadreel’s eyes close, breath catching, his Grace _seizing_ in surprise. Sam thinks the angel isn’t used to closeness with anyone, much less a human, and worries if maybe he’s done the wrong thing. He doesn’t expect it when Gadreel returns the odd embrace, his Grace flaring underneath skin and twining around Sam’s own consciousness.

It’s all fire and heat and light, but the intensity of it fades after a split second, and his entire awareness glows with warm, comfortable heat. A sea of gratitude flows towards him. Sam gives and Gadreel accepts, and Gadreel gives and Sam accepts, and for a few brief seconds, it’s unlike anything Sam has ever felt in his life, and it’s wonderful. It’s weird and it makes no sense but it makes perfect sense, all at the same time.

Gadreel abruptly pulls away, slipping back into his mind, leaving Sam to drive the body. Sam takes a steadying breath, reaching up to wipe at his face, still smiling through it.

He’s certain something intensely personal just transpired between Gadreel and himself, no matter how briefly, and he finds himself overcome with it. But he hides it with a smile and plays off his red face and tears as from the laughter.

“Yeah, so, like I said,” Sam says, his voice a bit rough, “No one is braiding my hair, but I have an idea.”

 

* * *

 

When they find Cas half an hour later, he’s got a soaking wet kitten shivering in his hands, rescued from the clutches of late Autumn. Dean, fighting back a sneeze, proclaims the kitten absolutely cannot stay in the bunker. No way.

Charlie, in turn, proclaims Dean a heartless boyfriend. Castiel just gives him a sullen face, cradling the now-dry kitten in a thick towel and refusing to let go. He carries it with them to the couch, where it sleeps as they prepare to watch TV.

Gadreel glances over at the kitten several times, and resists the desire to reach out and touch its soft fur. It sleeps in Cas’ arms, and he isn’t certain how Cas might react. Yet, Gadreel observes it with fondness, from it’s tiny form and white fluff down to it’s delicate pink nose. It purrs softly, and a sweep of Gadreel’s contentment spreads through Sam’s limbs.

Sam observes with some amusement. He wonders if Gadreel enjoys small animals the way he enjoys plants. It would make sense.

 _“I enjoy all of my Father’s creations, Sam,”_ Gadreel tells him. Sam just smiles.

 

* * *

 

Three hours later, Charlie has braided Sam’s hair in pigtails (Dean’s already snapped a picture, to Sam’s undying horror), and Gadreel expertly divides his time between watching Game of Thrones and attempting to braid Charlie’s hair. Somehow, he manages to give both tasks extreme levels of attention.

Sam just sits back and watches. He’s actually having a great time.

The finesse it takes to braid Charlie’s hair seems just out of Gadreel’s reach. With time, he’s come to handle trimmers and Cas’ plants well enough, but this new task requiring precise control of his fingers seems to leave him wanting. It’s not the first time Sam’s noticed it, per se, but it’s the first time he pays attention. That’s not normal, right?

His scrutiny doesn’t go unnoticed. _“When I take control of your body, I do not fully possess you,”_ Gadreel tells him quietly. _“While awake, you would feel overwhelmed with my Grace, so I refrain. However, I lose the ability to affect some fine motor control.”_ He pauses. _“I do not require it, in any event, to heal you.”_

Sam had known this, in a way. After all, Lucifer never held back, and the archangel’s power had been frigid agony and pain and light, all mixed together in an all-consuming storm. With Gadreel, Grace brims full and warm everywhere, but his skin doesn’t feel as if it would burst open. By exclusion, Sam had known Gadreel didn’t flood his mind with his full power.

Gadreel might not have enough strength, either. A jagged edge lingers in his thin Grace, grown rough after healing Kevin. Sometimes Sam thinks he feels an echo of the angel’s pain. Gadreel tries to conceal it, but can’t. Even now, his pain lingers like the last snow of winter, and Sam’s concern ties a knot in his stomach.

 _“You have a good heart, Sam,”_ Gadreel tells him, _“to worry for my sake.”_

Sam would refer to it as basic human compassion, but Gadreel probably wouldn’t understand. So Sam says nothing.

Charlie continues to instruct Gadreel with pointers on French braiding her hair, and her enthusiasm pleasantly distracts everyone. “No, gather equal amounts, and pull just a little tighter. No, no, not like _that_. You need smaller groups of hair. Hmm, maybe we should try something easier.”

Cas gives them a look bordering on comical. Gadreel doesn’t seem notice but Sam does.

Sam smirks from his vantage point. Yeah, Dean’s got Cas on a leash, in many ways. Sam, on the other hand, just enjoys watching his angel.

Gadreel’s fingers twitch, ribbons of silky red hair splaying and slipping from between his fingers. He mutters an apology to Charlie and starts to braid again. If he heard Sam’s slip of the thought—and Sam knows he undoubtedly did—he says nothing. Certainly, no one else is any the wiser.

Sam’s starting to feel like he and Gadreel might share an entire world no one else is privy to.

Gadreel quietly checks in every few minutes, nervousness tense against his spine. He listens attentively for any sign Sam’s feeling antsy and wants out. This extreme level of diligence puzzles Sam for a while, especially since he can just speak up at any time if he wants control again. Then he realizes Gadreel’s never been set loose for this long before, not while Sam’s also awake. Gadreel, despite his attempts to relax, has a coil of anxiety tensing low in his gut about it, fearful Sam will mind.

Oddly enough, Sam doesn’t. Watching Gadreel interact with the world, and with people _other_ than him, well, it’s kind of fun.

Charlie chats all through the marathon, and when Dean finally gives her a glare with ‘shush’ written all over it, she sighs dramatically, shoulders sagging with her mood. Then she grins, sun-bright and airy, and hops to her feet. She tugs at Gadreel’s hands to get his attention, pulling until he stands. She leads him across the room to a set of small, creaky chairs, balancing a drink precariously in one hand. Gadreel’s attention falls away from the TV and settles entirely on her.

She asks about Heaven, so Gadreel tells her what he knows, careful to leave out the gory details. As if sensing his reluctance, she next asks about Gadreel himself. It surprises him, but he haltingly tells her his story, and his relief when she doesn’t recoil cascades through his limbs. She asks about meeting Sam and Dean, and what happened after the Fall, and so he tells her that, too.

Sam’s heard it all before, but Gadreel’s long confession to Charlie remains no less stunning. It’s the longest stretch of talking Gadreel’s ever done in Sam’s presence.

“Seriously? So you spring the Heavenly slammer, find a vessel, and like ten hours later you march right into the crossfire to answer a prayer?” She sounds amazed and incredulous, but it’s accompanied by a smile. “You had to know you were hopping out of the frying pan and into the fire with these two wingnuts!”

Gadreel hesitates, only partially because he doesn’t quite understand the idiom. “No, I did not.” His jaw clenches, a thin cord of tension winding inside him. “I cannot claim bravery on my part. I merely heard a prayer for help and answered it. I did not know of the Winchester brothers and their reputation until after I’d arrived.”

“But you stuck around,” she presses. “When the other angels were attacking, you let Dean put up all that angel warding. You let him trap you in the room.”

Sam’s attention stirs at this line of conversation.

Gadreel tilts his head slightly. “Indeed, I did.”

“That’s badass,” she says. “I’d have been scared. I freaked out the first time these guys showed up.”

His head tilts minutely. “Yet you completed your task. You are also… badass.”

Charlie snorts, grinning. “Okay, then. So we’re _both_ brave, I guess.”

Gadreel smiles faintly for a moment, and grows silent, his eyes distant and unfocused. His distress hums deep in Sam’s bones. “Charlie, you and Sam are friends, yes?”

She smiles. “Yep.”

He hesitates. “Do you believe it is possible to redeem oneself after a mistake?”

“Wait, you mean like what happened in the Garden?”

“Yes, but… in this instance, I refer to Sam.”

 _That_ gets Sam’s rapt attention, loud and clear. It doesn’t go unnoticed by Gadreel, either, a low thrum of the angel’s anxiety coiling around Sam’s spine.

Charlie’s lips part, brow furrowing. “Aren’t you healing him? Keeping him alive after the badness of the Trials?”

“That I am,” Gadreel answers, “but for an angel to enter a vessel, they must first gain consent. I did not understand in the beginning, but… the ‘yes’ Sam gave, while typical by the standards of angels, is considered unacceptable among humans.” His lips quirk downward, distress thrumming throughout his Grace. “I spent a time in Sam’s body, hiding from even him.”

Sam knows this, of course. He’s aware Gadreel was new to modern humanity and didn’t understand the finer complexities of consent at the time. Sam’s been waiting since the conversation over Castiel’s flowers for the angel to sort through it on his own. And since Gadreel mentioned it earlier, during the conversation about Becky, and he’s again poking at the subject now, he must feel ready to finally talk about it. So Sam sits back and listens quietly.

Charlie shakes her head. “But he’s aware of you now, and he hasn’t kicked you out yet.”

“It is not so simple,” he says. “If I leave, Sam will die. If he desires to live, he cannot expel me.”

Her lips form an ‘o’. “So he doesn’t have a choice but to keep you around.”

“It troubles me,” he says, and his regret flows, cool and trembling, throughout Sam’s body. “I like Sam, and would not wish him harm. However, now that I am familiar with human autonomy and how my brethren abuse it, I regret I took him as a vessel. I did not understand how a human might feel intruded upon, even for their benefit.” He closes his eyes. “I have much to learn about many things, it seems.”

Charlie’s face contorts in a sour grimace. “Sounds like a Catch-22.” When he frowns in confusion, she elaborates. “A no-win situation? You wish you hadn’t done it because it hurt him, but if you hadn’t, Sam would be dead. And would you have ever even learned it was bad in the first place?”

Gadreel’s jaw relaxes, his eyes going distant in thought. “I do not know. Before the angels fell, I had never taken a vessel before.”

“You know, Zachariah threatened Dean with stomach cancer if he didn’t say ‘yes’ to Michael. You didn’t do anything like that.”

“While Michael’s offense may be perceived as worse, it does not excuse mine.” He sighs softly. “The end result—healing Sam—was all I considered.” He pauses a beat. “I truly thought I could heal him, and leave him none the wiser. I believed I was doing the right thing.” Shame and dejection pulsing through Gadreel’s Grace, ringing clearer than Sam’s own emotion.

Sam has to admit, he kind of prefers being alive right now, even as tired as he feels. And Charlie’s right, too; Gadreel doesn’t act anything like the other angels. He’s had too much opportunity by now to take advantage of Sam, and he hasn’t. It’s probably why Sam’s over the anger, now.

“You didn’t mean any harm,” Charlie says softly, putting a small, gentle hand on the angel’s arm. “You’re helping. And Sam doesn’t mind you there now, right?”

Gadreel’s expression tightens. “I believe a human would say, ‘that does not make it all right.’”

And _that’s_ the kicker. Good intentions or not, it had still been wrong. Sam had thought hearing Gadreel say it would feel vindicating, but now the moment’s finally arrived, he’s just kind of weary with the whole subject. Just another day in Sam Winchester’s life, right?

Charlie’s nose scrunches up in thought. “Well, you two are stuck together now, sure, but what about the future?”

He meets her eyes. “I do not understand.”

“You say you wouldn’t do it again, but if you ran into another situation exactly like what happened before, what would you do different?”

Gadreel frowns. “I would explain myself. I would accept a ‘no’ and leave them be.”

Sam would probably smile, if he could. At least he’s imparted one good lesson on the angel.

She nods slowly. “And what if it were someone you really cared about? Someone you didn’t want to die, but you knew they would say ‘no’ if you gave them the choice?”

Gadreel stills, an uncertain answer ebbing and flowing in his Grace. “Though it would be difficult, I imagine I would give them their choice.” He shakes his head, eyes closing. “These emotions, these ways…. They are difficult for me.”

Emotions can cause a lot of problems for everyone, Sam thinks. It’s no wonder the angel stays wound up like a clock.

Charlie nods. “Well, I guess it depends on what kind of an angel you want to be.”

He frowns, head tilting. “I am myself.”

“No, I mean, if you want to be a good angel or a bad one.” She shrugs, gesturing with open palms. “You could be good as gold by angelic rules, but if your methods are immoral by human ones, people aren’t going to trust you. They’ll just assume you’re a bad guy.”

“I mean, it seems to me like the other angels wouldn’t give a flip,” she continues. “But if you don’t want to be like them, you can’t accept just any ‘yes.’ A person has to be able to make a clear choice.”

Leave it to Charlie to deliver the simple truth with such clarity. Sam’s going to hug her for that.

“I understand,” Gadreel says after a long moment. “Thank you. Though it does not change the wrong I’ve committed against Sam.”

“Well, at least you’ve apologized. That’s a start,” Charlie tells him, and draws a blank look. “You _did_ apologize, right?”

A flood of pure anxiety sweeps through Gadreel. “I… no. An apology hardly seems adequate.”

A month or two ago, it might have felt grating to hear this from the angel. Now, Sam just feels drained. There’s no changing or fixing it, after all.

Charlie sighs. “Listen, sometimes you can screw up bad enough that people will never forgive you. It’s a part of life. You can say ‘sorry’ until you’re blue in the face, but the other person doesn’t have to accept it.” She pauses for a beat. “But you should _always_ say it, even if they don’t accept it. And don’t just give an empty apology. It makes you a better person to try and make up for wrong stuff you’ve done.”

Gadreel sits statue-still, stunned as he ponders the information. Sam thinks he might have to step in and explain it, but no, Gadreel _does_ understand.

“Thank you, Charlie Bradbury,” he says finally. “You are a human most wise.”

She grins brightly, her eyes crinkling. “Aww, you’re just saying that to get on my good side! Besides, it’s just a heart-to-heart between friends, right? A Woman of Letters and an Angel of Letters?”

He closes his eyes, his hands gripping the side of the seat unseen. “Friends,” he repeats, the word thick and heavy against his tongue, voice unsteady. “You do me honor. Thank you.”

“Hey, chin up, man. Only the truth.” Charlie smiles. “Besides, we have the rest of Game of Thrones to watch sometime, right?”

He smiles. “Yes. Though… perhaps we might watch something different. I must say, I do not enjoy the violence.”

She looks thoughtful. “Um. Hmm. Oh, I know! We’ll watch Narnia!” She smiles. “It has some battles in there, but it’s very PG, you know? Great story, though!”

He nods slowly. “Yes. I would enjoy that.”

“Speaking of stories,” she trails off, glancing over her shoulder to the far corner of the room. Cas and Dean remain engrossed in the TV. “We’re missing a great part!” she tells Gadreel, hopping to her feet and tugging at him. “Come on!” Then Charlie draws up short, hesitating. “If you don’t mind watching more, that is?”

He smiles. “Of course not.” He follows her and slides down on the soft couch, his eyes pointed towards the TV, but unfocused. His mind has wandered elsewhere, a thrum of distress still itching hot against Sam’s skin. All at once, Gadreel gives up control of the body and withdraws inside, leaving Sam driving his own body again.

Sam flexes his fingers experimentally, listening as Gadreel shifts inside of his skin. The angel’s Grace shines warm and steady, and retreats to a rather atypical place—somewhere right behind his forehead. It puzzles Sam, but he then recallsthere’s actually a place up there, hidden within his skull; the library-shaped headspace neither of them has visited since the day Sam learned about Gadreel.

Well. Seems like an invitation.

Sam breathes deeply and closes his eyes, withdrawing his awareness to a pinpoint inside his mind. He thinks of the giant, empty library, similar to the bunker’s library, and yet not.

When his eyes open, he almost stumbles in surprise. The room no longer houses empty shelves, but brims full-to-bursting with books. He spares a moment to glance about before noticing Gadreel next to the fireplace, back turned to Sam.

Sam trudges forward, coming to a rest beside him. Absently, he holds out his hands to feel the warm glow of the fire. It burns hotter than before, and Sam wonders what it means. Everything here probably means something, after all.

After a long moment, Gadreel turns haunted eyes on Sam, the sharp lines of his face shadowed in the dim light. Sam finds himself reminded, yet again, this place more than any other allows for no secrets. Gadreel shifts his weight, possibly more vulnerable than Sam’s ever seen him.

“Sam,” he says, his voice barely a whisper, “I am sorry. I share blame with Dean, as I suggested healing you from the inside. In any event, your ‘yes’ was not one I should have accepted.” His lips tighten into a thin line, and his eyes flit towards the dancing flames. “I shall never do so again.”

Sam stares at the side of Gadreel’s head, watching the smooth muscles of his jaw tense. Something heavy and cold gathers in his gut, because he can’t say the words Gadreel needs to hear.

So, he offers the only thing he can. “I know you are.”

Gadreel doesn’t turn to face him. Sam can’t help but think of how much they have in common. Gadreel let the snake in the Garden. Sam let the Devil loose upon the world. Both ranked as catastrophic, nigh-unforgivable mistakes, and they’ve both gone through Hell and come out the other side, battered and bloody, to pay for them. And yet somehow, here they both are, standing tall and stuck with one another.

All of this still doesn’t make it all right, not by a long shot. Despite the fact they get along well, he doesn’t know if he forgives Gadreel for it yet (he doesn’t Dean, anyway). Even knowing the angel hadn’t understood the wrong he committed changes nothing. But as he watches the angel, stolid even as his Grace hums with dread, Sam thinks—no, he knows—he _can_ forgive him. It’s only a matter of time.

Maybe even soon. He’s not exactly mad anymore, after all.

“This is what Dean doesn’t understand,” Sam says. “It’s difficult to let someone you care for make a dangerous choice. It’s why he insisted on doing the Trials himself. It’s so much easier to sacrifice yourself than let someone you care for make a sacrifice for you.” Sam’s eyes go distant in the firelight. “Sometimes, we save people for our own sake, and not for theirs.”

Gadreel’s shoulders relax, just slightly. A moment passes, and he nods. “I understand. As promised, as soon as you are healed enough to survive, I will depart. And… you are not required to forgive me. I do not ask for or expect it.”

Sam watches, feeling so much loneliness swirling dark and cold in the angel’s Grace.

“But I want to,” Sam says. “In time, I can.”

Gadreel’s head rises, mouth parted, face slack. Sam smiles weakly, and reaches out to press a hand to the angel’s shoulder. He gives it a squeeze, because really, there’s no need for the angel to feel all alone when he’s not.

“Sam Winchester,” he finally says, his voice a rough whisper, “you do not cease to astonish me.”

Only a few seconds pass back in the real world, yet it seems they stand there a long time. They stare at one another openly, searching for answers amid the confusing mess.

When they return back to the outside world, Castiel and Charlie have busied themselves with setting up a box for the kitten in the corner. The two pad it with an old blanket, and discuss what will pass for cat litter until someone buys some.

Dean looks on, his expression one of utter defeat.

 

* * *

 

Scarcely an hour later, they’re all racing through bunker with Dorothy Baum in tow, chasing the Wicked Witch of the West with bullets made of poppy seed. It sounds like a the plot of a lousy spinoff novel, but it’s far too frightening and real for that.

And then Charlie dies. Dean screams for Zeke, the new nickname forgotten in the panic. Gadreel drops to her side, and doesn’t hesitate.

“Resurrecting her will damage me,” he warns both brothers at the same time. “Sam will be fine, but I will no longer be able to assist you against the Witch. I apologize.” He pauses only a moment before nodding at Dean. “Good luck.”

He presses a gentle palm to her forehead, and lets his power seep freely into her skin. Under the powerful ministrations of Grace, her heart flutters weakly, and finally restarts. About the time she sits up, gasping awake, Gadreel falls backwards, a soundless, agonized cry vibrating harshly in Sam’s head.

Sam only barely gains control of his body before slamming into the solid wall, though it makes little difference. A wave of exhaustion and dizziness fills him and drops him to the floor. Alarmed, he reaches within for the angel, tries to pull on his Grace, tries _anything_. But Gadreel slips right through his fingers into a well of oblivion.

Sam catches his breath, sitting back up. “He’s out,” he tells Dean. “We’re on our own, now.”

 

* * *

 

Charlie _would_ end up saving all their asses.

A few harrowing hours and a dead Wicked Witch later, Sam watches as Dean, Charlie, and Dorothy talk about the Impala, Dorothy’s motorcycle, and the rebellion in Oz.

Gadreel would probably have something to say, or a question about some aspect of the scene, if he weren’t still out of it. Sam feels cold without the constant thrum of his warm Grace, and tries not to worry about the fact all his attempts to rouse Gadreel have ended in failure.

Charlie turns to Sam, and throws her arms around him.

“If you need anything,” he tells her, “just… tap your heels together three times, okay?”

She snorts. “Me? What about you crazy kids? You going to be all right without me?”

Sam smiles warmly at her.

“Seriously though,” she says, biting her lower lip, her entire posture slumping, “take care of my angel in there, okay?”

Sam stills, and tries to fight down a low thrum of worry all his own. “I will.”

“Thank Gadreel for me, please, for bringing me back from the dead. Tell him when I get back we’ll all have a real party, and by then he should have some favorite movies, and… Hey, do you think an angel would be into LARPing?”

Sam can’t help but chuckle, just a little. It sounds muted and dull, his heart not in it. “Maybe. You can ask him when you come back, safe and sound yourself.”

“Is he gonna bounce back soon?”

Sam nods to reassure her, though he’d _really_ like to know himself. So he lies. “Yeah, healing just takes a lot out of him. He healed Kevin before you got here, and I guess resurrection tires him even more.”

Her lips curl downwards, her head bobbing slowly. “I guess he must feel wrung out a lot, even under normal circumstances. I mean, with healing you and everything, since you’re like the walking dead without him, right?”

Sam opens his mouth to reply, but stops short, his throat going dry. The thought had actually never occurred to him, and now that it has, he feels stupid for never realizing it before. The angel weakens when he uses his power to heal others, yes, but he’s constantly expending energy to keep Sam going, too. A thousand other thoughts follow, such as the way his Grace palpitates thinly through his muscles and veins, instead of a smooth, solid stream.

“Am I like a zombie, now? Do I need to eat brains?”

Sam laughs, her distraction welcome. “No, you’re fine. Angel resurrection is perfectly non-monster territory.”

Charlie chuckles, and nods. “I’ll come back from Oz to check on you guys. You know, from time to time.”

“Are you sure you want to go? We can always use a talented Woman of Letters.”

“And get stuck in the war between Metatron and all the douche bag angels? Are you crazy?” She smiles, taking a few steps back. “Catch ya later,” she says with a wink.

When the door opens, Oz shines bright and blinding as far as the eye can see. It’s everything Sam would expect from a fairy realm, complete with the Emerald City glittering in the distance.

“Think she’ll be back?” Dean asks.

Sam smiles faintly, feeling wistful. “Of course. There’s no place like home.”


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Did it take me four months to post an update? Oops.... I am so sorry, friends. 
> 
> While I went back and forth with my beta several times in May over this chapter, consider this final result unbetaed. Any mistakes are mine. I just don't like this chapter, but I've finally accepted that no amount of editing or rewriting will make it sound like I want it to.
> 
> Also, this fic now begins to earn it's Explict rating. If that's not your sort of thing, you might want to skip past the middle of the chapter.

He splashes chilled water onto burning skin, his hands raking over his face as though he could scrape away his feverish pallor. He inhales though his nose, water sluicing down his cheeks and dripping back into the sink.

Sam feels as though he’s back in the midst of the Trials. His bones ache with exhaustion and his stomach roils violently. His fever runs high—though not so high as it had before the third trial, thankfully. This wave of weakness will pass in a few minutes, he knows, but it’s torture while he endures it.

Sam feels kind of like he’s dying. He’s not entirely sure Gadreel isn’t.

He lifts his eyes to take in his reflection, sallow and tired, complete with bloodshot eyes. The irony that he would come to fully understand what the angel does for him only when he can’t quite keep up any longer tastes bitter in his mouth. Oh, Sam had known he’d die without the angel’s influence, so his current state doesn’t exactly surprise him, but it feels no less astonishing to realize he’s been _this_ sick all along.

It's not entirely blank in his head. Sam _can_ feel him; feel the way his thin Grace courses unevenly, like water skimming over cobblestones. It’s jagged and cold and quiet, and as time passes the silence wears on Sam.

Moments after Charlie left, he sifted through his mind for the comatose angel, finding him in their shared headspace. Gadreel lay huddled up and unconscious in their library, but no amount of prodding would awaken him. Shivering and dirty on the unwelcoming floor, Sam had gathered him into his arms and set him upon the long, feather-soft couch. He cleaned him up and found cushions and blankets for him to rest easier.

Sam sighs, and drops down on the edge of his bed, water still dripping from his face. He shuts his eyes, and with a thought takes himself to their shared library. Gadreel sleeps on, his chest rising and falling slowly.

Is he recovering, or dying? No one seems to know. Cas had told Sam Gadreel's presence here suggests optimistic things, but... but...

Why won't he just wake up already?

Sam sinks to his knees beside Gadreel, slow and careful, resting a tentative hand on his chest. The cadence of his heartbeat softly thumps against his skin. Sometimes Sam thinks the strangest things in this place, like do angels even have heartbeats? Do vessels continue to exhibit human-like reactions if an angel does not censor the body? Sam doesn’t know any of these things. He thinks probably should by this point in the game.

Gadreel has become so weak, even beyond this episode of sickness. Sam doesn't know how he knows, just that he does, and he can feel it. He's cold to the touch, and if the damage from the Fall were not enough, he's expended most of his energy keeping Sam together. Healing Kevin and Charlie finally pushed him into this comatose state. Can an angel's Grace run completely dry? Would Gadreel die?

Somehow, the thought bothers Sam just as much as the knowledge he’d die too.

Sam moves backwards, settling into the armchair he's pulled over to Gadreel's side. The flickering light in the fireplace remains weak and faint, leaving a terrible chill in the room. He wraps up with an old afghan he found on the other side of the room—exactly like one he used to have in his college dorm—and begins to hum an old tune. With Gadreel gone quiet and still, he can't stand the silence in his head.

Somewhere between late nights spent explaining the Internet and mundane questions about how to make dishcloths, Sam went and accidentally made friends with the angel. But no big deal, right? The Winchesters can always use more allies, and anyway, Sam wanted to get to know Gadreel better. And so maybe they’re friends now. Slightly overprotective friends, but friends. There’s no way it’s not going to feel a little messed up, right? They’re sharing a body and all up in each other’s thoughts. Vessel business aside…

Sam halts, his eyes settling on Gadreel's slackened, motionless face. Sam’s still working it out with Dean, who should have known better, but honestly, Gadreel didn’t. At this point, holding onto any grudge with the angel feels ridiculous. Gadreel saw someone near death and acted according to the only rules he knew. He knows better now, and if Gadreel wanted to be an ass, it would have happened already. He lays before Sam sick and maybe dying precisely because he has done nothing but help Sam and everyone around him.

Unlike every other angel he's ever met, Gadreel has remained resolute to leave as much space as possible between himself and Sam. He could learn so much if he rifled through Sam’s mind the way most angels do. Instead, he has kept his word to Sam. Sam sees it now, even though he hadn’t wanted to before. Gadreel has proven he doesn’t lie. He has shown nothing but honor and courtesy to Sam, and now that the angel can't hear him anymore, Sam's desperate to tell him he's forgiven. And to thank him.

Gadreel reminds Sam of Cas years earlier, excepting the whole soldier thing. Sam’s become accustomed to angels who moonlight as fierce warriors or bureaucrats, not… glorified gardeners. Sam can see Gadreel as a guardian, sure, but he can’t detect a trace of a ruthless killer. Maybe he’d never even been a soldier.

Sam reaches forward and adjusts a blanket on Gadreel's couch. He wonders idly if his body has become just another prison to the angel, not to mention the way they stay locked up tight in the bunker all the time.

Something in the real world tugs at his attention, and Sam reluctantly leaves the library, casting one last glance at Gadreel before he goes. It's not like he's truly leaving him, but it always feels that way.

When he opens his eyes back in his bedroom, there's a fluffy kitten mewling in his lap, her big blue eyes staring up at Sam.

"I know, Mary," he coos, petting her soft fur. "I hope he comes back soon, too."

Her sweet nature and curious spirit have endeared her to all of the bunker’s residents, with everyone taking turns spoiling her. Sam would never tell Dean, but he enjoys having the cat around even more than he’d expected, considering he usually prefers dogs. Cas looks adorable with the tiny creature. Dean tries his best to play along, but usually gets lost in a fit of sneezing. Dean had nothing to say when Cas named her 'Mary,' and just pulled the fallen angel into a tight embrace.

She hops his lap, and trots off towards the backroom. "Hey," Sam calls after her, "get back here you little furball." He rises slowly, his wave of nausea finally gone. He follows, shaking his head. "You know you're not supposed to mess with the plants. Cas will put you on dry food for a month this time if you break another flower pot."

When he rounds the corner, he's surprised to find Cas already there, tugging at sagging blossoms and withering stems. Mary predictably hops up on the counter, rubbing up against Cas where he leans over the table.

"Mary, I've told you. Do not play near my plants," Cas chides, voice gentle as he plucks her from the table and deposits her on the ground. His eyes wander to the doorway, and he offers a weak smile. "Sam. Hello."

"Hey," he offers, returning the tired smile. "How goes the gardening?"

He sighs, shaking his head. “Not well. I don’t understand, Sam. I did everything Gadreel told me to.”

Sam stares at once-bright petals, now dull and dry . “I’m sorry, Cas. I don’t know anything about growing plants,” Sam replies, shrugging apologetically. “I just like to eat them.”

Cas nods, a hand rising to massage his temples. “Gadreel still has not awakened?”

Sam leans against the doorframe, shaking his head. “Cas, is something wrong with his Grace? Or is he just _that_ hurt from the Fall and everything?”

“You are in a better position to answer that than I am.” He turns to face Sam. “Without my own Grace, I can’t tell for sure.”

“If you had to guess?”

He crosses his arms, biting his lip. It’s a new habit he’s picked up since falling. “What do you feel, Sam? How does his Grace feel?”

Sam inhales, holding the breath for a stinging moment before forcing it out in a harsh puff. “Um. It feels… cold. Thin.” He pauses a beat. “I mean, it’s always been kind of thin, but not like this. It’s never been cold. It’s always felt warm.”

His eyes narrow. “And you? Do you feel well?”

Sam brings a hand up to trail through his hair, fingers slipping though sweaty strands as he pushes it from his eyes. He nods. “I feel awful. Like I’m back in the Trials again. It comes and goes, but I’m so tired since he’s gone under.”

Cas nods. “As I suspected, then. He’s using his Grace faster than it replenishes.” His eyes darken, lips pressed in a thin line. “When he awakens, we must tell him to stop.”

Sam’s stomach lurches. “What if his Grace all runs out?” he asks.

“Normally, an angel would recover it over time from Heaven,” he says, “or they would draw power from their vessel’s soul. But now we’re cut off from Heaven’s power, and because of the sigils I carved on your ribs, your soul is beyond his reach. If he continues to drain himself to almost nothing without any other source of energy to fall back on, he’ll die.”

Sam tries not to shudder, and fails. This line of conversation does nothing to alleviate his worry. “Is it worse from healing Kevin? And Charlie?”

“While those incidents helped push him into a bad place, I don’t think they’re entirely to blame.” Cas meets his eyes, the tired lines of his face creasing. “I can’t know for sure, not without asking him, but I think he’s expending too much Grace to heal you over himself.”

Sam blinks, his mouth twisting. “Why would he do that? It doesn’t even make sense.”

Cas shakes his head. “If he thought you intended to expel him I believe he might… for your sake.”

“That makes even less sense, Cas. Wouldn’t he be in lousy shape if I kicked him out right now?”

Cas rubs the nape of his neck, his lips drawn in a tight line. “I’m not certain he would survive if you expelled him right now.”

The idea causes his blood to run cold. “Yeah, well, not happening. Not right now.”

“Sam, you’re the first person Gadreel has been close to in a long time.” Cas pauses, the bare hint of a smile twitching the corners of his lips. “I believe he likes you.”

Sam opens his mouth to respond, but his throat goes dry. The idea that someone, _anyone_ , could know him half as well as Gadreel must and yet still sacrifice his own well-being for Sam’s sounds absurd.

Finally, he finds his voice. “Sure, I guess. He likes all of us.”

“Tell me, Sam,” Cas continues, “has Gadreel’s Grace reached for you?”

He tilts his head, shrugging. “I don’t know. What does that even mean? Isn’t his Grace everywhere?”

“Not exactly,” he answers. “Sometimes an angel’s Grace and a human’s soul can touch.” He pauses, gazing at Sam thoughtfully. “It empowers both vessel and angel, and binds them together for a short time. It’s an open way of coexisting with a vessel. Should Grace and soul touch so many times they begin to mingle, or should an intense desire for such unity occur, the bond between human and angel becomes permanent.”

Sam blinks. “Permanent?”

“Don’t worry,” Cas responds, setting down his plant trimmers. “You both would have to consent to such a bond for it to be permanent. And as I said before, he cannot touch your soul. To touch, your soul would need to seek out his Grace of its own volition.” He sets down his plant trimmers. “After Gadreel’s long isolation, he may have unintentionally reached for you in his loneliness.”

His brow knits together. “Wait, if it’s not otherwise permanent, then wouldn’t it help him if like… my soul just briefly touched his Grace, or whatever? Can I move my soul around those sigils, and like… help him?”

“It doesn’t work that way,” Cas tells him. “You can’t move your soul around the way he can move his Grace. He has to reach for you first, and whether he reaches by accident or on purpose, you must respond and reach for the connection. In your case, the sigils are a very difficult stumbling block to overcome. Even you may not be able to get around them.” He pauses a beat. “Regardless, there is a reason angels avoid this. It’s a very intense and personal interaction.”

He crosses his arms, his brow furrowing. “But Cas, there was this one time where my mind just kind of reached out and touched his Grace, and… well, it was just for a few seconds, but it was intense, like hovering in the middle of a thunderstorm. I didn’t even really mean to do it.” Sam halts, his throat going dry as he remembers what happened during everyone’s jovial laughter with Charlie days earlier. “Well, twice. I guess… the second time I meant to.” He glanced up. “But something definitely happened there.”

Cas’ lips part, his eyes widening a sliver. “That’s… something different.”

“Something bad?” Sam asks.

“No, but…” Cas pauses a beat, his eyebrows rising. “What you’ve just described, being able to initiate contact like that… It means he allows you control over his Grace. That’s unusual.”

“Unusual, why? How?”

“Coexisting with a conscious vessel is unusual enough. But allowing you access to his Grace is unheard of.” Cas tilts his head thoughtfully. “He must trust you.”

Sam has no idea why. “Trust me with what, exactly?”

“Everything. Though what that means, exactly, I don’t know. I have no personal experience with it.” He turns back to his plants, taking his trimmers in hand. “Grace is half of what we angels are. By giving you control over it, he’s opened himself to you in ways I can’t predict, or even imagine.” He pauses, clipping at a sagging branch. The dark, spotted vine tumbles to the floor. “It’s no small thing, Sam. Once granted, he can’t revoke it until he takes another vessel.”

The information leaves Sam stunned, his lips parted. “Why would he do that? Why would any angel do that?”

Cas shakes his head. “We don’t.” He glances over his shoulder at Sam. “You’d have to ask Gadreel why he’s made an exception in your case. Perhaps it’s penance for inhabiting your body in the first place. Perhaps it’s an attempt to reassure you.”

Sam remains silent a long moment, considering Cas’ words. “I just don’t understand why he’d do that.”

A tiny hint of a smile grows on Cas’ face. “As I said before, I think he likes you, Sam.”

When a unbidden rush of heat flushes Sam’s face, darkening his cheeks, he’s glad Cas has turned away.

 

* * *

 

 

“I’m going Dean, and that’s final.” Cas crosses his arms. “I can’t stay here and hide forever.”

Dean frowns. “Cas, are you sure? I mean, it’s fifteen hours to Idaho. You’re still catnip for angels, buddy.”

“I’m warded,” he retorts, “and Gadreel carved the same Enochian sigils into my ribs you and Sam have. I’m as hidden as I can possibly be.”

Sam watches the display with some amusement. Dean and Cas argue all the time, but it always lacks heat, as though they argue merely for the sake of arguing.

“Fine,” Dean finally relents. He spins on his heels to face Sam, eyes narrow. “And it’s not a big case. Not a lot of manpower needed. So you—.”

Sam holds up his hands in a placating gesture. “Hey, I got it. I’m not good, Gadreel’s not good. It’s better if we stay here.” He shrugs. “I mean, it barely sounds like a case, anyway.”

Kevin snorts. “They’re just bailing on research.”

Dean halts, his mouth opening and closing a few times. Finally, he gives Kevin a dopey grin and shrugs. “Okay, you got me. C’mon Cas, let’s get ready.”

 

* * *

 

“Oh. Hm. It’s irreversible.” The demon pushes the papers back towards them.

Sam’s heart drops straight through his stomach. “What?”

“This spell can’t be undone. The new world order? We’re stuck with it.”

Crowley looks faintly disgusted, while Kevin looks as horrified as Sam feels. Numb, he wraps up their supplies, takes the translations, and locks up the basement. Gadreel and Cas—especially Cas—will be devastated.

Sam goes straight for the library, intent on research. He digs into old books, ransacking the bunker’s archives for any scrap he can find on Elamite, just in case the demon did lie. After a while, with exhaustion settling heavy upon him, Sam finds himself thinking about Crowley, the _human_ Crowley. He wishes he had completed the trials and healed him once and for all. When it comes to the demon Crowley, however, the ruler of Hell, Sam just wants him dead.

With his search turning fruitless after many hours, he shuts an old, dusty tome with a loud clap. Reclining in the uncushioned, stiff wooden seat, he stretches full and deep. He needs a shower and sleep.

He shuffles down the hallway, pausing in his bedroom to strip his clothes off. Without much thought or circumstance, he steps into the adjoining bathroom and turns the knob on the shower, watching as steam begins to rise from the scalding spray of water.

He sighs with the pleasure of it, the hot water draining over his body, easing tension from tired muscles. Sam sneaks a quick peek at Gadreel again, who remains profoundly out of it, quietly resting in their library. Sam shrugs, and goes back to washing himself.

After discovering he had an angel riding around in his skin, Sam had quickly become more than slightly embarrassed about many day-to-day things. At first, of course, Gadreel had hidden from him, so it didn’t create too much of a situation. However, with Sam coaxing the angel to come out and experience the world first hand, it had become more of a problem, especially when he needed to take a shower. Gadreel further compounded this himself by virtue of his own ignorance about human things, especially the concept of nudity.

Oh, it made perfect sense. Gadreel had never taken a vessel during the course of modern human history, and had once relayed to Sam how no one wore clothing in the Garden at all. Sam’s cheeks had started burning—and he had no real explanation for why such an innocent line of conversation should embarrass him—and he stammered out an explanation along the lines of ‘people have to wear clothes now.’ Answering ‘why’ would lead to yet another topic Sam didn’t want to discuss (he didn’t actually have a decent answer, anyway), so he simply said ‘that’s just how it is.’ Thankfully, the angel seemed to realize Sam didn’t want to talk and dropped it.

One night, Sam had grouchily snapped at Gadreel when he’d gone to take a shower, which had the undesired effect of sending the angel deep inside again, tucked carefully in his hiding spot (it had taken an entire day to entice him back out). Sam made a point of explaining how he’d rather have his solitude during certain activities, such as showering and undressing. No snooping or peeking out of his eyes allowed.

Gadreel, of course, took this so literally he dropped off Sam’s radar every single time he so much as stripped his shirt off. He’d had to explain going shirtless didn’t count, but the angel didn’t quite understand why one uncovered part of the body differed from any other.

Sam assumed he’d get over his bizarre sort of shyness, because Gadreel had probably already seen everything anyway, and at least for the moment it’s his body, too. With the passing of time, however, Sam felt even more embarrassed around the angel, not less, and he didn’t quite understand why. It’s not as if Gadreel would have anything disagreeable to say. He’d view it as another daily human ritual. Still, Sam couldn’t quite bring himself to share these moments just yet. Maybe in time.

Gadreel had come to understand the modern, intertwined concepts of nudity and sexuality to some degree, thanks to his exposure to Dean. He had a habit of watching TV with the others now, and one day Dean had flipped the channel to a Dr. Sexy MD marathon. While Sam wanted to intervene and warn the angel about the danger in taking lessons about life from Dr. Sexy, he left well enough alone. It wasn’t _so_ inaccurate, anyway. It was in the neighborhood of accurate.

In the end, it had resulted in a few stressful hours for Sam while Gadreel watched people make out in closets and do questionable things on hospital beds. Despite all the skin, the angel seemed to overlook all the racy bits and instead focused on the existential drama, to Sam’s profound relief. Sorta.

Sam had felt his eyebrows knitting together as the angel considered the storyline. “How does Johnny Drake persist without turning into a vengeful spirit?” he asked Dean.

Dean was all too happy to fill him in. “Well, Johnny’s a ghost, but he’s tied to the sexy, neurotic heart surgeon over there. She loves him, so he sticks around. It’s not very accurate, but you know, show logic.”

Gadreel had attempted to ask questions about interspecies romances after that (“Is that doctor a vampire? Why does he bite her neck, then?”), but Dean eventually shushed him, and the angel never picked the line of questioning up again. Not that Sam knew how he would have handled it, anyway.

Furthermore, back in the real world, Sam didn’t begin to know how to broach the topic of arousal or sex, so he just didn’t talk about it at all. And he certainly wasn’t going to get himself off with Gadreel along for the ride, who would watch him intently and question every sensation Sam felt. Telling the angel to get lost crossed his mind a few times, especially when he felt strong and healthy and horny, but doing so might require explaining exactly why Sam wanted such privacy. Sure, Gadreel would listen without argument, but Sam just didn’t want to have the conversation to begin with.

This had led to quite a drought on Sam’s end. He hadn’t touched himself in a long time, since before he’d learned of Gadreel’s presence. He didn’t have quite the insatiable drive Dean had, luckily. It didn’t manifest as a constant itch he’d needed to scratch, but it had been a while now, and he needed something. Oh, he’d pressed his hips into the mattress of his bed a few times, groaning softly as he’d rut, but he always stopped himself before getting too into it, lest the angel take notice. Gadreel tended to overlook and ignore stray thoughts, so a few heated fantasies could go unnoticed. An orgasm and its rush of pleasure would certainly garner unwanted attention.

Sam’s half hard under the cascading water just thinking about the possibility of getting off, but he’s so tired... With a last peek to make sure the angel hasn’t awoken, he reaches down and closes his hand around his cock, his hips jerking forward into the touch. He feels the weight and heat of himself in his hand, and inhales deeply as he strokes, firm and languid and wet.

He turns his head to the side, feeling a pleasant pop relieve undue pressure in his neck. Usually, Gadreel’s Grace flows throughout his body, alleviating minor discomforts such as cramped muscles and uncooperative joints. It’s definitely a perk of carrying around an angel, one he thinks he’s gotten too accustomed to. Maybe even a bit spoiled, considering how freely the angel parts with it.

The thought runs away from him, and he hums softly at the thought of Gadreel’s warm, tingling Grace stirring in his bones, soaking through his muscles and radiating out to the tips of his fingers. Idly, he wonders how it’d feel around his—.

 _No_. Of all the idle thoughts swirling around in his head, thinking of Gadreel _that way_ was a terrible idea.

But it’s too late: Sam’s already crossed the line and he’s too tired to fight his way back. And within seconds, his brain becomes consumed with _what ifs_ : What if Gadreel were awake for this? What would he do if Sam touched himself? What would he say? Would he feel curious? Would Gadreel enjoy it?

Hell, what if Sam enjoyed it?

Then Sam remembers he’s only Gadreel’s second vessel, and he only had the first one a few hours. While it’s possible angels commune with each other somehow, being the wavelengths of light and energy they are, it’s almost certain Gadreel has no personal experience with sex at all. The thought sends a delicious shiver meandering down Sam’s spine, because for some reason the idea delights him, and it absolutely should not.

Somewhere, in the distant recesses of his mind, his brain flashes a giant stop sign, complete with glaring neon red and huge, painful white letters. Sam spends four whole seconds telling himself he’s _not_ jerking off while thinking about Gadreel, because _what the hell_? This is _Gadreel_ , who’s sick and unconscious and probably wouldn’t appreciate it too much. But Sam’s mind fixates on the tall, gorgeous man he’s seen in his headspace, with those intense gray-green eyes and harmonious voice, and he ends up diving right down the rabbit hole.

It’s not a big deal if he has a little fantasy about Gadreel just this once, right? It doesn’t mean anything.

So… what if Gadreel _were_ awake? What would Sam do?

He’d take the stoic, brooding angel apart piece by piece until he screamed in all the best ways. That’s exactly what Sam would do.

He’d touch his mouth, slide his thumb across Gadreel’s bottom lip before showing him the wonders of making out. He’d kiss him breathless, taste that wonderful mouth with his tongue until the angel panted beneath him. Yes, Sam would do wonderful things to those lips and mouth, the same lips which say such wonderful things to him, paying him compliments, whispering of the most amazing tidbits of knowledge.

He imagines touching the angel, skimming fingertips over bare skin as he mapped the lines of his muscles, the jut of his hipbones. He’d tease him with lips and tongue and teeth, tasting him, memorizing the hollow of his throat with his tongue, thoroughly wrecking Gadreel until he’d gasp and beg Sam for more.

Gadreel would look beautiful, squirming and breathless under Sam’s touch, so utterly lost in all the sensation. In the midst of the angel’s constant haze of loneliness which he cannot fully hide, the pleasure and sheer want would overwhelm him. Sam thinks he’d take to it like a man dying of thirst, having been led to a well of crisp, cool water. Perhaps once he’d had a taste, he’d never tire of it.

And Sam could give him everything, he thinks; he could hold him in his arms and give him all he wants. He’d take care of Gadreel’s needs the same way Gadreel has taken such painstaking care of him. Even now, Sam can imagine the feel of the angel’s Grace shifting under his skin, warm and shivering with excitement, his lyrical voice murmuring between Sam’s ears. Whether he fantasizes about having Gadreel in another vessel or imagines him sharing in Sam’s own pleasure, it all makes him shiver, his hand moving faster against his cock. He teases the head lightly, pressing a finger into the slit, a soft moan spilling from his lips into the steam-filled air.

Sam presses one arm against the shower wall, leaning heavily into it as his breath comes in hash pants. As the water sluices down his face, he slows his hand to a more leisurely pace, hips jerking into his own touch. It feels amazing, and gets even better when he imagines Gadreel in the shower with him, where Sam could press him up against the wall and touch him. Sam would press their bodies together and wrap his hand around both of their cocks. He’d watch those green eyes and take his time kissing him, slowly and fully, jerking them both off together. He’d trap him between his arms, and memorize his sharp jawline with lips and tongue as their bodies slid together in a sinuous rhythm.

Gadreel has a curious spirit and enjoys experiencing things firsthand, including the touch and texture of things. While Sam’s watched, he’s admired vellum flower petals and scrutinized the roughness of old, dry paper beneath his fingertips. He’s even taken time to inspect the feel of dirt and dust against his skin. Considering Gadreel’s been starved of any sort of sensation for thousands of years, it makes perfect sense he’d make a point of enjoying small things.

So yes, Gadreel would certainly find an appreciation for a lover’s skin. He’d press the pads of his fingertips into every fine line and hollow dip on Sam’s body. He’d rake curious fingers through Sam’s hair, marveling at the feel and taste of flushed skin.

Sam imagines trailing his hands through his short, blond hair, lightly scraping fingernails against Gadreel’s scalp until the angels shivers and moans against Sam’s neck. And he’d kiss him, savor him, nip at the juncture of his neck and shoulder—yes, god, _all_ of these things. Perhaps the instincts of Gadreel’s vessel would lead him, and he’d thrust his hips into Sam’s, desperate for friction against his cock, all the while not really understanding what he’s doing, only knowing it feels good and he needs more.

All the warm, thrumming Grace which flows under his skin would burn hotter than ever. Yes, Sam would give Gadreel all the pleasure he could stand. He’d learn the angel’s body, know every weak spot, know just where to touch to make the angel cry out in rapture.

Sam lowers his forehead to rest on his arm, eyes screwed shut and breath coming in noisy puffs as his hips jerk forward, thrusting his cock desperately into his hand. Oh yes, Gadreel would enjoy this. Maybe he’d whimper, his voice shivering and destroyed as he softly moaned Sam’s name, lost as they both neared their orgasm.

And that’s the thought Sam gets stuck on as his thighs tremble, a deep cord of tension within him surging higher and higher. God, the way Gadreel says his _name_ … He says _Sam_ like he’s come to worship at his feet, as though Sam possesses some wonderful quality deserving of adoration. He says _Sam_ like he’s blameless and worthy, as though no demon blood ever pumped through his veins.

Gadreel, swept away in arousal and beautiful sensation, would say his name as a prayer: _Sam, Sam, Sam_ …

Sam gasps Gadreel’s name and comes hard, mind utterly shattered as a rush of heat races up his spine and out through his fingertips. He spills hot over his hand and against the tiled wall, stroking himself through the last tremors of his orgasm until he’s spent and oversensitive and exhausted.

Sam takes deep, quivering breaths, his weight pressed against the wall as he gathers his wits. As a completely pointless afterthought, he self-consciously checks on the angel again, who remains sleeping and unaware. Sam flushes with embarrassment as his brain plays catch-up, and realizes just exactly what he’s done: He’s just had a mind-blowing orgasm to a fantasy of Gadreel, the _angel_ riding around in his skin.

It doesn’t mean anything. Not a damn thing. He’s just feeling sorry for the angel and wants to him to feel less miserable. And Sam’s been feeling horny so it came out as a weird fantasy sort of thing, and… this kind of thing happens a lot, right? Besides, they’re getting along quite well and have become friends, so Sam’s certainly not feeling attached like all that. Nope. This? Just a one-time thing. Never again.

Stretching takes an inordinate amount of effort, his limbs gone stone-heavy and weak. He’s bleary-eyed and half-dozing, and it takes some concentration to finish cleaning himself. It takes even more energy to clamber out of the shower, his leaden legs heavy and uncoordinated. He stumbles back into his bedroom, collapsing upon the firm mattress. The cool air chills his skin, and he eventually summons the energy to maneuver himself under the blankets.

Yeah, Sam’s going to pretend this never, _ever_ happened. It’s for the best, really. He can totally keep it a secret without a sweat, since Gadreel doesn’t pry. And it’s not as though it meant anything in the first place.

In the dark, his mind continues to drift back to the subject, and the truth kind of stings. Sam could never deserve the kind of devotion and loyalty from Gadreel he’d fantasized about. Sam lets everyone down, abandons people, and people end up abandoning him in the end. Anyway, he reasons there’s no point in worrying. After all, Sam’s not invested or anything, and Gadreel will leave soon enough.

Everyone always does, after all.

 

* * *

 

When Dean and Cas show back up with hunched shoulders and worried expressions, it’s obvious the hunt turned up more than just a rogue angel.

“Talked to another hunter on the scene,” Dean explains. “He says he saw a short, scruffy dude exorcise an angel from its vessel.”

Sam’s mouth drops open, and he blinks. “Exorcising an _angel_?”

“A Rit Zein,” Cas fills in, as if Sam’s supposed to know what it means.

“You’ll have to translate, Cas. Gadreel’s still out of it.”

“It’s an angel who—.”

“Forget it right now,” Dean cuts in. “The important part? Our scruffy dude was Metatron, and he exorcised a _friggin’ angel_ from its meatsuit.”

Sam exchanges stares with the two of them. “How is that even possible?”

“Years ago, you interrupted Alistair as he attempted to exorcise me from my vessel,” Cas explains. “There _is_ an incantation, but only the archangels and Lucifer’s highest ranking demons could use it.” He shakes his head. “It takes immense power.”

Sam takes a breath to ask how Metatron could use it, but remembers he’s the Scribe of God. If he’d memorized how to cast all the angels from Heaven, it’s no stretch to assume he’d know how to cast an angel out of its vessel, too.

“So, if exorcising a demon sends it back to Hell, then exorcising an angel sends it back to Heaven?”

Dean makes a noise of assent, nods his head. “Except Heaven’s locked up tight right now.”

“So what happens to them?”

Cas shakes his head, lips pressed in a grim line. “Forced to return but unable to do so, the spell might tear the angel from its Grace. I’m not certain, but I think it’s killing the angels he uses it on. Remember the strange angel deaths Gadreel told us about from angel radio?”

Sam remembers quite well, nodding as he shifts his weight to the other foot. “But didn’t Anna do something like that? She cut out her Grace and fell. And you, Cas… You don’t have Grace anymore, but you didn’t die, either.”

“Neither Anna nor I were compelled by the power of an incantation to return to Heaven,” Cas explains. “And I’m not entirely certain what would happen now if such an exorcism was turned on me. It might kill me, too.”

Sam rubs the back of his neck absently, a frown creasing his lips. “What happens to the Grace?”

“It returns to the fabric of Creation to promote the growth of new life. Usually.”

Dean’s lips draw tight, his eyes wide and gaze severe. “But the hunter said he saw the dude putting it in a jar.” He adjusts the cuffs of his sleeves. “Looks like our buddy Metatron might be powering up on stolen Grace.”

Sam narrows his eyes. “Angels can do that?”

“Technically, yes,” Cas explains, “though I don’t believe he’s absorbing it himself. Too much would burn him out, eventually. However, all alone in Heaven he has access to other forms of power. He only needs a large pool of Grace to draw from.”

Sam shakes his head, brow furrowing. “As if dealing with Abaddon and Crowley aren’t enough already…”

“When Gad wakes back up,” Dean says, “you’d better tell him the bad news. Maybe he knows something.”

Kevin’s eyes flit between them, a bitter snort tearing loose. “I’ll hit up the angel tablet.”

 

* * *

 

Sam wanders into their shared headspace again where Gadreel rests, stone-still and quiet on the couch where Sam left him. The fire in the hearth burns brighter now, the room itself illuminated by faint lights on a chandelier suspended from the ceiling.

Sam just can’t stay away. Gadreel feels as unavoidable as oxygen.

He stares down at the angel, observing the steady rhythm of his breathing. His hand itches to reach out and touch, so he does, placing the palm of his hand atop Gadreel’s chest, closing his eyes as he feels the heartbeat underneath. Sam feels an odd compulsion to do this. It’s far from the first time he’s rested his hand on the angel’s chest, as if beckoning some unknown energy to heal him.

His other hand comes to rest on Gadreel’s forehead, where the skin feels clammy and warm. Sam drags his fingers across the angel’s brow and down the side of his face, feeling sharp lines and slack muscles outlined on slick skin. His palm slides flush against his cheek where fevered heat seeps into his hand, and the ghost of a hot breath tickles his wrist. Some angels tend to run hot, but not all, so where does Gadreel stand? Sam had never asked. He shifts his hand to the other cheek, his eyes scrutinizing the angel as though he could divine all the answers he needs by sheer focus and willpower alone. At least he’s warmer than before…

His lips are fever-chapped and pale, parted slightly as he rests. Sam stares for a moment, his hand rising from the angel’s cheek and moving to hover over his mouth. Searing air puffs against his fingers, wet and burning like a balmy summer day, and Sam _almost_ runs his thumb along Gadreel’s bottom lip. It’s chapped, after all, and Sam wants to know how bad it feels. Just so he can get chapstick or something.

The next humid breath breaks the spell, and Sam yanks his hand back. Okay, so yeah, he doesn’t need to touch Gadreel’s lips to know they’re chapped.

He backs away, sinking into the adjacent armchair as he looks on in worry. As he watches Gadreel, he wonders for the millionth time if there’s anything at all he can do to help. The sound of crackling wood from the fireplace drifts through the room, and Sam drapes the old afghan around his body again. The smell and sound of the flames hypnotize him, beckoning him to rest. He shuts his eyes for just a moment, and….

When he opens his eyes again, he’s standing in the midst of a wild dream. Maybe. It seems too colorful, too lucid for a mere dream. He’s standing alone in an empty room—a hospital room, he thinks, judging by the soft beeping of medical equipment.

He narrows his eyes, spinning around to take in all corners of the sterile environment. What’s going on? How did he get here? He’s never seen this room before and doesn’t know this place.

He’s considering various possibilities when the air shifts, a snap of electricity hissing in his ears. The door flies open with an awful creak, and Dean marches in, followed closely by Gadreel—or perhaps his former vessel. Neither pay Sam any heed as he watches the scene unfold.

“Here he is, Ezekiel,” Dean says. “He needs help, man.”

Ezekiel? But Gadreel hasn’t gone by Ezekiel since—.

And all at once, Sam understands. He’s not dreaming at all, but somehow he’s glimpsing Gadreel’s memories. How the hell can he see this?

The memory versions of Dean and Gadreel both move towards the bed, their faces twin mirrors of concern and worry. Sam spins around, and nearly jumps as he sees a version of _himself_ lying in the now-occupied hospital bed, looking for all the world as if he’d tried to take on a giant animal barehanded—and lost. Well, the Trials had done a number on him, even before he’d gotten to the last one.

Gadreel rounds the bed, eyes soft and lips pressed in a thin line of concern, his gaze never wavering from Sam’s figure on the bed. The angel moves with determination, reaching out to place a solid, gentle hand upon his chest. His eyes slide shut, brow furrowed in concentration. He seems weary, as though expending more energy than he has to spare.

“You still able to cure things?” Dean asks. “After the Fall?”

“Yes, I should be, but…” Gadreel trails off, out of breath, tongue darting out to wet wind-chapped lips. “He’s so weak.” His voice exudes worry and distress, a frown cooling the corners of his mouth.

Dean’s phone rings, shrill and piercing. He waves an arm at the angel and steps out of the room, his voice fading in down the hallway as he leaves Gadreel and Sam alone. Sam just crosses his arms and watches the scene unfold before him, curious.

Gadreel does not move from his steady vigil, his hand remaining over Sam’s heart. His other hand comes to rest easily on his forehead, and the angel’s eyes slide shut. “Sam Winchester,” he calls out, “Hear my voice and return to the world. Your brother awaits you.”

The body doesn’t stir in the least, and Gadreel sighs, his head shaking slowly. “I pray I have not arrived too late. I shall do whatever I can for you.”

The angel’s worry weighs heavily on Sam. It surprises him at first, though considering it’s Gadreel’s memory and not his own, he’s not stunned he can feel what the angel felt, too.

All at once, a familiar tone, faint and shrill, sounds deep within his ears. Gadreel’s head snaps up, his face frozen and eyes wide. He turns to the side, his lips parting. “No,” he murmurs, “not now.” He races to the window, staring out at something only he can see.

Sam’s heard this story before. He’s heard how Dean warded up the entire room as angels searched for vessels, while Gadreel remained locked inside to heal Sam. But right now, as the sharp cacophony of angel radio reverberates in the air, fear rules Gadreel’s emotions and conflict sets in. The angel in front of him has literally just fallen and has not yet known freedom for an entire day, and he has _no idea_ what to do.

This Gadreel feels lost, alone, and seethes with terror as the hostile angels approach. Gadreel glances between Sam’s supine form and the window, his brow furrowing as he considers bolting from the scene. Sam can almost taste the angel’s distress, his thoughts unfolding for Sam as they skitter quick and rapid though Gadreel’s mind. He had no idea he’d come to aid Heaven’s most wanted, and though he wants to help, he worries for his own well-being, too. He can’t stand the thought of dying at the hands of another angel so soon after the only freedom he’s known in millennia.

He trots back to Sam, still motionless on the bed, and closes his eyes, a heaving breath escaping him. He lays his hand on Sam’s chest once again, solid and gentle, his expression softening, a rush of compassion coloring his thoughts. Gadreel’s entire being roils in terror, but he remains steadfast.

“Do not fear,” Gadreel says, “I will not leave you.”

Sam tilts his head, smiling faintly. Gadreel had to know Sam couldn’t hear him. Who was he reassuring, exactly? Or did Gadreel think speaking to Sam in this unconscious state would somehow comfort him?

He steps closer to the bed, watching as this first meeting of theirs unfolds. Gadreel came to possess Sam here, under duress himself, battling with his own injuries and reeling in abject terror at the situation. Sam can’t tear his eyes from Gadreel’s hand, where it rests so carefully upon his chest. It isn’t the touch of someone who wants to harm another.

The shrill noise surges in intensity, and Gadreel again moves to the window.

The door swings open. “One of yours?” Dean shouts from behind him.

Gadreel turns. “Trying to secure a vessel. We need to move.”

“No, no. If we move him, he dies.”

“If we stay here, we could all die.”

Dean spies the room frantically, grabbing a marker. He sets about drawing angel warding symbols on the walls. A reaction rips through the angel instantly, his Grace contorting in pain and thrumming unevenly. Unseen by Dean, Gadreel views the scene with dread. His shoulders hunch and he seems to shrink in his own skin. He glances at the door briefly, but shakes his head and stands firm.

A few minutes pass as Dean draws on the walls, and all the while Gadreel shifts uneasily. It makes perfect sense to Sam now, of course. It must have seemed like yet another cage, one the angel willingly allowed Dean to seal himself within.

“Long as these are up, no angels are coming in. No one’s coming out.” Dean turns to Gadreel. “You gonna be okay with these?”

Gadreel swallows thickly, but nods. “I’ll manage,” he says.

Everything grows dim even while the scene continues to unfold, their voices mixing together in a blurry haze as the room fades entirely from Sam’s awareness. He fights to hold on to the memory, but it slips through his fingers like water.

A moment later, he opens his eyes to the library once more, curled up in the armchair with an itchy blanket draped around his shoulders. Gadreel still sleeps, resting on the couch adjacent. Sam takes a long, deep breath, feeling the sting of too much air in his lungs for a moment before exhaling slowly. He stands, slowly moving towards Gadreel.

He remembers what Cas told him before, of how Gadreel has given Sam access to his Grace. Somehow, he thinks he may have just utilized this access, even if he doesn’t know how. Then again, Sam had just been thinking about his strange compulsion to touch Gadreel’s chest. Perhaps he’d accidentally accessed the memory of Gadreel doing the exact same thing to him. Somehow.

The thought stirs an idea within him, and he glances between his hand and Gadreel’s chest. Did it mean something more? A soft chuckle escapes Sam’s lips, a warm smile creasing his lips. _Of course_. Gadreel’s not awake, and can’t direct his Grace where he needs it most. But Sam can.

He kneels beside the angel, his palm resting gently over his heart. Sam closes his eyes and focuses on the dim glow of the angel’s Grace, swirling erratic and loose deep inside his bones.

“Gadreel,” he whispers, “if you can hear me, come back. We’re waiting for you.”

Sam searches his mind, letting his awareness sink deep inside Gadreel’s weakened Grace. He wraps his energy around the angel, pulling gently.

“I know you’re there,” Sam says. “Don’t be afraid. I’m not going to leave you all alone. I promise.” His fingertips rustle against the material of the angel’s shirt.

Sam lets his mind remain in place, floating inside of chilled Grace, reaching for the angel in any way he can. A few minutes pass, then warmth—weak and uncertain—reaches back.

Beneath him, Gadreel breathes deeply. When Sam glances down, the angel stares up at him, eyes barely open, but awake.

“Sam,” he croaks.

“Hey there,” Sam says, smiling. “You heard me.”

Gadreel’s eyes slip shut, the corners of his mouth curving into a faint smile. “Call upon me, Sam Winchester,” he says, “and I shall always answer.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I can't promise when the next update will be, only that there WILL be updates and it WILL be posted in its entirety. I'm a married grad student and I'm waist-deep in other responsibilities, and my Sam/Gadreel muse has been scarce lately. My Sabriel muse has been the only one that wants to come out to play, so in my spare time that's what I've been writing. But fear not! As I said at the beginning of this fic, it's already completed, so I WILL finish editing it so you can all read it.
> 
> I don't know why I disliked this chapter so much while editing (believe it or not, the smut wasn't the part that bothered me!). It really tripped me up and brought me to a grinding halt. The most important thing, though? I hope you guys enjoyed reading it.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's not as if he's fallen in love with the angel. Right?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have no excuse for how long this update took me. I beg forgiveness from all, and vow to have the rest of this thing up in a sorta timely manner. I'm so sorry you've had to wait this long.
> 
> This chapter is somewhat of a relic of the original one-shot nature of the story (when it only spanned a few thousand words, as opposed to a 70,000 word fic). It's very introspective and quiet action-wise, but there are many emotions and thoughts and the like. I couldn't easily cut the content from the fic and have the rest of it make sense, so here it is. Starting the next chapter, you'll have more action than you can stand, I promise. But I apologize if this chapter isn't quite up to snuff.
> 
> This chapter is unbetaed, but I've been over it so many times my eyes bled. All mistakes are mine.

Art by the talented [TricksterAngelGabriel](http://tricksterangelgabriel.tumblr.com/). (Click [here](http://tricksterangelgabriel.tumblr.com/post/120380363395/tricksterangelgabriel-commissioned-for-the) for a higher resolution)

 

* * *

 

He doesn’t like to think about it for various reasons, the least of which is because he’s never quite alone. But there in his bathroom, as he brushes his teeth, he _knows_. He tries not to think about it, and Gadreel senses his desire not to talk and shies away as best he can. Sam brushes his teeth until his gums hurt. If he didn’t have Gadreel, they’d have started bleeding by now.

He can’t quite pinpoint when it happened, but something has changed; shifted imperceptibly.

It’s subtle, and yet not. Hitherto, Sam’s life has been a macabre collection of horrors and miracles, none of which have ever brought glad tidings, but this? This somehow frightens him all the more, and Sam’s fairly certain his concerns don’t trend towards the monstrous for once.

He leans down, his long hair brushing the basin of the gas station’s sink as he rinses the toothpaste from his mouth. Gadreel doesn’t enjoy the taste, but Sam’s not about to stop brushing his teeth just because of the trifling fact he doesn’t need to anymore. It’s a lifelong habit, after all.

From his vantage point, Gadreel quietly defers. There’s a familiar echo, a thought-that’s-not-a-thought, but _something_ passes between them all the same. It says, _It is_ your _body_. But the angel doesn’t say it, and Sam doesn’t hear it, and yet… and _yet_...

For most of Sam’s memory, life has given him little to celebrate and even less to hold on to. There’s Dean, who he’d do anything for. There’s Cas. Kevin has endeared himself to the family, too. And now….

Sam can’t quite say it, doesn’t even dare to _think_ it, because he has an audience and he has no idea how to explain the confusion swirling in the space between his ears. While it’s no dirty secret, it frightens him all the same. Maybe if he starts to think about it, he’d have to start _thinking_ about it, and Sam doesn’t think he’s ready for anything else huge going down just yet.

Life in recent memory feels like a suffocating stroll through the most garish desert. The sun blinds him and mirages trick him everywhere. Despite his best efforts, Sam always makes the wrong turns, and what he mistakes as an oasis usually turns up something like poison.

But it’s been a few months, and life doesn’t feel so confusing anymore. The sun doesn’t burn his skin and he can see where he’s going. There’s a horizon now, and it’s neither unbearable nor unreachable. It’s like he tripped and fell into an oasis somewhere, but he’s not drowning. Inch by inch, there’s an angel lifting him free, and they’re both tired and soaking wet, but Sam’s never felt better.

It’s the other half of the equation which frightens him.

_‘You are troubled,’_ says Gadreel. His mood seems equal parts curious and fretful, as though he knows Sam’s thoughts do not tend towards the immediately dangerous. But how could he _not_ know?

“I am,” Sam admits, because he can’t lie. He rounds the corner, opening the door to the Impala with a loud creak. Dean’s going to fret over the noise for this whole damn trip.

“Don’t worry,” he tells Gadreel. “It’s… I’ll figure it out. Get some rest, okay?”

The angel hesitates, but complies. He’s still hurt, and hardly strong enough to argue. But even as he fades quietly into the background, Sam can feel his worry even if he can’t hear his thoughts.

Sam tugs at the wrapper of a protein bar, eyeing the discolored topping with some trepidation. The chocolate twists in messy spirals, with nuts and berries and flaky bits of granola peeling away. It’s a half-melted, gummy mess. 

You know, kind of like him and Gadreel.

Oh, they’re not _really_ a mess, not yet. But there’s an instinct in Sam warning him off, whispering of a tangled web so dire neither he nor Gadreel will ever find their way free. It doesn’t bother Sam nearly as much as it should.

He pointedly does not think of the other night in the shower, and takes a bite of his protein bar. It’s hard and gummy and too sweet on his tongue, and disgusting with the lingering aftertaste of his toothpaste. The opposing flavors clash but soon find a balance with his taste buds.

When Dean hops back in the driver’s seat, Sam’s doing a grand job of not thinking about a lot of things. Like how he’s not sure he wants Gadreel to leave at all. And he doesn’t understand it or even comprehend it, but it’s nearly as terrifying a thought as being alone again, and Sam doesn’t think he’s ready to think about _that_.

Something has been changing for months, but it’s only now Sam’s become aware of it. And he knows he’ll have to give it careful examination, and soon.

 

* * *

 

The case takes some creativity and effort, but soon they’re on their way back to Kansas. Sam sits in the Impala as Dean drives, listening to the steady thrum of Grace in his ears, thumping with his heartbeat as it flows through his veins. Gadreel has mostly recovered from his previous exertion, but he still seems to sleep from time to time.

It’s quiet and cold, and Sam glances over at Dean, a ghost of a smile warming his lips.

“You gave it up for me,” Sam says. “The boys home.”

Dean snorts, but it’s half-hearted. “I don’t know what you’re talking about, man. I was glad to get out of there.”

Sam smiles, his eyes glazing over as he stares into the blackness of the night the headlights struggle to illuminate. “Thank you,” he answers anyway. He turns his head to observe Dean, who retains a wistful sort of expression.

After a long, long time, so long Sam’s eyes have shut and he’s drifted close to sleep, Dean speaks.

“Are we… are we _good_ now, Sam?”

There’s barely contained anxiety in the voice, and Sam doesn’t bother opening his eyes to check Dean’s face. It doesn’t matter, anyhow. “Dean.”

“I just… I know, nevermind. I get it.”

Sam sighs, his eyes still shut. “Do you understand why it made me so angry? I would’ve rather died than be possessed again, and you knew that.”

He opens his eyes to glance over at his brother, whose jaw has gone tense, doing uncomfortable-looking twitches.

“I… yeah. I do get it.” He swallows. “But I just couldn’t just let you die.”

“You didn’t save me for me, Dean,” Sam says, his voice soft and gentle. “You understand that, right? You saved me for you.”

Dean says nothing for a long while. “Yeah.” He repeats it again, his voice softer. “Yeah.” He doesn’t sound quite convinced, but Sam supposes at least it’s a start.

“Somehow, we lucked out for once and ended up with the best of all possible outcomes with Gadreel,” Sam tells him. “But Dean, it could have gone so badly.” Sam stretches his arms out in front of him. “He could have just gotten up and strolled away with my body, and I would have been none the wiser. He could have killed you, or Charlie, or Kevin. We just don’t get lucky like this. This isn’t the sort of thing that will ever happen again.”

“I know, yeah, _I know_.” He looks so uncomfortable, white-knuckling the steering wheel. “It could have gone sideways so hard, I know.” He shakes his head, a bitter laugh spilling from his lips. “I just didn’t know what to do, Sammy. I was all alone, and you were dying, and… Hell, I shouldn’t have even put out a prayer like I did, because even if you weren’t dying, the angels that showed up were gonna kill you and me both.” He shakes his head again. “Cas has been all over me because of that move.”

Sam’s lips quirk as he thinks of Cas chiding Dean harshly. “You have to live your own life, Dean,” he tells him. “I won’t live forever.”

“I do have my own life!”

Sam quirks an eyebrow at him before closing his eyes and leaning back into the seat again. “You’re getting there.”

Dean doesn’t say anything in response, but Sam’s sure he’s making some kind of a face.

“You need to respect my ability to choose,” Sam continues. “If I did something like the Trials again, something that will kill me… you have to respect that.”

It’s silent a long moment, before Dean finally says, “Yeah.” His voice sounds heavy, weighted down with immeasurable grief.

“If I’m ready to die, that’s my right to make that choice,” Sam continues. “That’s different than doing everything you can to save me, but…” His voice trails off as he tries to find the words.

“You make a choice, I stick by it,” Dean fills in.

“I know it’s hard. I know it’s easier to make a sacrifice yourself than to allow someone else their right to choose for themselves. But it’s selfish to do otherwise.”

It’s quiet for several minutes, and Sam just lets himself drift in the darkness, closer to sleep.

“So, are we good, or…?”

“We’re getting there,” he finally answers, smiling a bit and opening his eyes. Dean glances over at him a few times, his entire posture relaxing.

“Yeah…?”

Sam nods, and his own lips curve into a smile. “Yeah.”

Sam closes his eyes again; lets the sound of the engine and the road lull him closer to sleep. But as he thinks about it all, he feels empty and cold. What if Dean never actually gets over this co-dependence thing he has going on with him, even with Cas’ help? It’s enough of a worry it nags at him and keeps him awake; makes unease settle into his mind.

All at once, he feels the warm sensation of something shifting within his own skin, and he feels calm again. Sam exhales as Gadreel wraps his Grace around Sam’s very essence, his consciousness, maybe even his soul, offering comfort. 

So, the angel had been awake and aware for at least part of the conversation, and Sam didn’t notice. He shrugs to himself and shifts in the seat to get more comfortable, wordlessly accepting the gentle warmth of Gadreel’s Grace. If the angel remains semi-conscious, somewhat aware of their shared surroundings, and passing out the possession equivalent of hugs when Sam feels upset, well, Sam can’t say he actually minds.

_”I can be useful, Sam,”_ Gadreel’s voice ghosts across his mind.

Useful.

A heavy mass of emotion twists within Sam’s stomach. It’s not the first time Gadreel has pleaded his usefulness, not by a longshot, but there’s something about the way he says it which leaves Sam feeling frustrated and sad. As if Gadreel, for as much as he enjoys them and their company, thinks he’s only good if he’s ‘useful’ and they won’t let him stick around if he’s not. Maybe if he does enough party tricks they’ll keep him around.

Actually, Sam realizes, it’s probably exactly what Gadreel thinks. Sam knows he hasn’t exactly been vocal in telling him otherwise.

_“You’re a lot more than ‘useful,’ Gadreel,”_ Sam tries to tell him, but the angel has already drifted off to a restful slumber.

Sam frowns. He didn’t envision things happening this way at all.

 

* * *

 

Something inside the angel has broken, Sam thinks. He’s still too weak.

Sam’s feeling great, possibly better than ever. But Gadreel feels frayed and unsteady around the edges, more so than ever, and it’s not until Sam’s thought about it for a day or two when he realizes it’s nothing new. He’s just paying more attention. 

He wants to help, he does, but how does a human go about helping an angel? Gadreel’s already claimed his Grace only needs time to regenerate, but the rot Sam feels has lodged itself far deeper than any superficial wound would explain. Though, Sam imagines being locked up since the dawn of time might have a lot to do with it, too.

Sam knows his fair share about cages. He knows how the days and weeks and years can stretch out forever until they lose all meaning; until the measurement of time itself seems becomes a long-forgotten concept. But he could linger on thoughts of eternal torture and hellfire, or try to think about better things.

He wonders now if time moves the same way in Heaven as it does in Hell. Because if so, Gadreel has spent something on the order of millions of years in lockup, which just makes Sam’s paltry few centuries seem like playtime.

The angel rouses—though he’s been paying attention the entire time—and acknowledges Sam’s thoughts. It’s telling he doesn’t actually comment one way or another on Sam’s suspicions. In any event, the angel feels cold and closed off about the whole subject, and seems to have no desire to talk about it. Sam can understand that. And still. Gadreel _understands_ Sam’s pain and what he went through in a way few others ever could, just as Sam thinks he might understand Gadreel’s anguish. 

The acknowledgement is silent. No words pass between them. It’s not as though there’s a lot to say about the subject of endless torture, but still. Sam’s never felt this before. He’s been possessed and had psychic abilities, but even at the height of both, he could never communicate like _this_. He would have thought it disturbing, or even chilling. Never warm and comfortable, never _pleasant_.

He makes a vague gesture to ask for privacy, and Gadreel retreats. 

Gadreel will eventually recover, and so will Sam, and soon he’ll leave (maybe he’ll even retake his old vessel, if he gets another ‘yes’ from him him). This has always been the plan and Sam never doubted it.

So why does the thought of the angel leaving have his stomach done up in knots? 

Sam never truly invited him in. He got tricked and allowed him to stay, but there’s never been a true, informed ‘yes’ to pass his lips. And the idea Gadreel would have to leave eventually has always comforted Sam. He’d get his body back. But then, had he ever lost it to begin with?

If he’s honest, no. 

Sam sighs, one giant hand combing through his thick hair. This has all become ridiculous. They’ve become friends and have passed some time together, so sure, Sam might feel a bit fond of the angel. He’s not unlike Cas in a lot of ways, with his questions and love of the library and bookishness. So it’s normal Sam would feel some trepidation at the thought of a change. It’s not as if this has become something else, like an attachment, or like… like….

It’s not as if he’s in love with the angel.

Right?

Oh, no. No no no. That’s definitely not what’s going on here. It’d be a damn foolish thing to go and do, to fall in love with an angel riding his skin. 

He hopes Gadreel didn’t hear any of that. 

But whatever barrier had once separated them keeps dissolving away as time creeps by. Gadreel can no longer hide his loneliness and deep, aching sorrow from Sam, while Sam can’t hide his anxieties and fears from Gadreel. 

He can’t keep any secret for long.

 

* * *

 

When they’re back home, Sam finds himself thinking about Lucifer. Oh, how the Devil had defended himself! Told Sam a tragic tale about too much love, a story so poetic, a woven masterpiece, leaving Sam to wonder how long he’d spent preparing it. The story manipulated the listener, and some had actually bought it. Demons bought it. Nick certainly had. And in some alternate future as told by Dean, Sam apparently had, too.

As he brews a cup of tea, he considers the contrast with Gadreel. Sam firmly believes at this point the angel has been wronged in every way imaginable, set up to fail from the beginning because God just _had_ to know what would happen. But the angel has never said anything in his own defense. The only thing Gadreel ever said on the subject? He loved humanity.

But he can’t hide how he _believes_ he's guilty, how he feels it defines him as an angel. It makes something in Sam ache with remembrance of his own past. It's something they share, this guilt. And Sam recognizes something else: a desperate, wild desire to do anything to fix it, yet paralyzed with the knowledge he never can.

Gadreel mopes around as Sam sips his too-hot tea, leaving him pondering the sequence of events which came to pass to bring him to the hospital. He’s seen Gadreel’s side of it now. He could have run away, but he didn’t.

Sam feels so grateful for the angel, and he’s never even bothered to tell him. 

He sets down his teacup and closes his eyes. With a thought, he reaches inside himself, wraps himself around Gadreel’s Grace, and pulls him into a tight embrace.

The angel flinches in surprise, and when Sam opens his eyes, they’re inside of the mental Library again. The fireplace roars with warmth. His arms wrap around Gadreel in a physical embrace, even as he can feel his soul and Gadreel’s Grace circling around each other from far, _far_ deeper within.

“You were terrified, and stayed to help me anyway,” Sam tells him, unwilling to let go of the angel, murmuring against dark, dirty blond hair. Forgiveness and warmth and gratitude flood his chest. “Thank you.”

Gadreel answers with a halting voice. Despondent Thick with emotion.. “You… forgive me?

Sam smiles. “Yeah. You’re forgiven.” He squeezes Gadreel tighter. “In fact, I’m actually pretty damn glad to have you around.” He pauses, closing his eyes. “Just in case I haven’t made it clear.”

Sam thinks it’s damn ironic the other angels would scorn Gadreel, a true creature of such compassion among them, who has braved his fear and shown himself trustworthy and kind. He has his problems, his traumas, but he’s a good angel.

A shocked flutter unfurls within him, and the form enclosed in his arms shifts, staring up at him. His expression begins as frozen, eyes wide and lips parted, but his face shifts into an expression of wonder.

“You know that, right?” Sam asks. “You _are_ a good angel.”

He does not answer, but turns his head away. In many ways, Gadreel remains a deeply wounded ball of pain who’s still trying to figure out how to deal with the fact he’s free after millennia of imprisonment and torture. Yet beneath the pain, his true nature remains warm and shines through. It’s brighter now than it has ever been, and Sam would like to think his encouragement, and those of the others, has helped.

Sam pulls his trembling form back to him, and remembers the angel probably hasn’t become used to such closeness with anyone, much less a human. And yeah, they don’t do this. They don’t do this sort of thing with each other. But Sam can’t stand this sorrow and guilt which permeates Gadreel lately, and just wants to offer whatever small bit of comfort he can.

He thinks he'd do a lot of things right now for Gadreel. Maybe anything.

"I'm glad you’re here," Sam whispers again.

Sam feels a burst of emotion so powerful his eyes water, the angel so overwhelmed his emotion bleeds right through to the vessel he's been so carefully tucked inside.

Back in the room, in the real world, Sam wiggles back against the chair, finding it ridiculously comfortable. He keeps his eyes closed, and simply lets the emotions overwhelm him, because not-so-deep down, Sam needs it, too. He needs to know he's more than just a fuck up who keeps bringing about heartache and the end of all things. Riding through the emotions of Gadreel's own moment, well, he’ll take it as encouragement.

Back in the Library, Gadreel’s voice drifts as a soft whisper, as if the angel can barely stand to speak. “You never cease to amaze me, Sam Winchester.”

 

* * *

 

Gadreel’s awakening had been just in time to save Cas’ flowers. He tends to the colorful, velvety leaves and blooms. Even with all his angelic Grace and strength, his touch remains feather-light and nimble.

It’s funny, a bit, how he’s had to learn to use Sam’s fingers, how the fine motor control took practice. Sam thinks if an angel just takes over completely, maybe it’s not the same. Maybe they get it on the first go. But if you share with a vessel, it’s harder. And Gadreel doesn’t exactly just take over, even when he’s in control.

It’s a rare moment of contentment when Gadreel spends a few bare moments tending to these few potted plants. Sam wonders if he’s thinking of Eden. If he ever thinks of Eden.

Gadreel the Gardener. It makes Sam’s insides warm at the thought.

The corners of his lips quirk, Gadreel a bit amused. “Eden did not require a gardener,” he says out loud as he scrutinizes a lopsided, sickly lily. “The plants grew with perfection.”

Sam’s heart beats faster, even though Gadreel still has the reigns. _”But…?”_

A small chuckle spills from his lips, and the angel shuts his eyes. “But, it is true I enjoyed the scenery.” He opens his eyes, and turns his attention to the stem of the plant, his fingers carefully weaving into thick, black soil. “I enjoyed learning about every beautiful thing there my Father had made. I delighted in the many colors and scents.”

He removes his fingers from the dirt, and with a thought, the grime vanishes.

Sam thinks about it, about Eden. Freaking paradise. Hah, he bets the angels strutted around like the modern day birds of paradise, shining as brightly colored, beautiful things. The gardeners with lush, green wings as rich as the garden around them, the guards standing strong with bright white wings.

Gadreel’s eyes glaze over a moment, his entire essence going still. Sam worries he’s crossed over into a place he should not have gone, at least until the angel speaks again.

“Angels came to Eden to marvel at the beauty of God’s finest creation,” he corrects Sam. “We admired humanity, God’s most beloved creation. Many angels came to the Garden to bow down before you, following our Father’s command to love you more than Him.”

He closes his eyes again. “And yes, the feathers of my wings are green.” He pauses, considering. “Were green.”

He feels slight flutter of pain in his back again, throbbing and stinging, just before it vanishes.

Sam’s heart drops to his stomach. The phantom back pain he’s been feeling… It’s not his pain, it’s _Gadreel’s_. It’s his wings.

“Yes,” the angel confirms. “They burned in the Fall, wounded. They require attention, but I am incapable of doing so myself.” He busies his hands with the last of the plants. “They will remain intact until such time they can be groomed.”

Sam wants to see them. Wants to touch them, to give them the attention they need, but knows he can’t. He hopes maybe Castiel will come around, and he’ll help Gadreel.

Something hesitant unfolds in his gut before disappearing, and Sam wonders again if he made some sort of mistake.

 

* * *

 

When Gadreel meets Mary the kitten again, he bonds with the tiny creature instantly. He scoops her up in Sam’s huge hands, dwarfing the ball of fluff. He enjoys playing with her, and loves to hear her purring against his shoulder. Sometimes he sits and lets the kitten sleep on his chest.

Sam thinks it’s the most adorable thing he’s ever seen. Gadreel, the stoic Wall of God: lover of kittens.

One day, Dean observes this, and grumbles about the kitten between sneezes. He’s stopped trying to get close to the cat at this point, but despite his assertion he doesn’t like cats, he still plays with her. Lets her chase string, throws toys, everything. He just doesn’t scoop up the cat or pet her. It doesn’t seem to matter though, because it just sets off his allergies anyway.

Gadreel watches Dean in a particularly awful fit of sneezing, and seems to understand all at once what’s going on. He goes to touch two fingers to his forehead, but halts, thinking the better of using his Grace on Dean without asking him, first.

“I can make your sneezing stop,” he says.

In response, Dean sneezes. “Yeah? That’d…” He sneezes again. “That’d be great, Gad.”

Permission given, he touches Dean’s forehead with two fingers, and heals him. Rewrites something Sam doesn’t understand so the allergies won’t return.

“There,” he says, “Mary will no longer give you trouble, Dean.”

Dean’s brow knits together in confusion, just before leveling Gadreel with a bright smile. “Dude, did you just fix my cat allergies?”

Gadreel nods, to which Dean gives a lopsided, bright grin and sucks in a deep, sneeze-free breath.

“Oh that is so _awesome_!” He smiles, and scoops up the kitten in his hands. “Thanks!”

Gadreel warms, and Sam realizes it’s the first time Dean has ever complimented or thanked Gadreel for anything. The angel, however, doesn’t seem to mind. He’s just warm with the knowledge he’s slowly, slowly, getting there.

“You are welcome, Dean Winchester.”

 

* * *

 

“Are you sure?”

“Damn sure,” Dean’s voice answers, tinny and thin on a nasty cell phone signal. “Looks like Metatron exorcised another angel and made off with its Grace.”

Gadreel listens intently, but says nothing. Sam can feel his disbelief fluttering throughout his Grace. “Any sort of pattern showing up yet?”

“Cas says these are some of Malachi’s angels, but the ones in the next town over belonged to Bart’s.”

Sam leans back in his chair, brow furrowed. “What is he even doing? He already kicked all the angels out of Heaven.” He frowns. “Is it some kind of revenge thing?”

“No way to tell, yet,” Dean answers, voice warbling with static. “But we’ve got to stop him, somehow.”

 

* * *

 

Sam lies in bed, feeling the tingling warmth of Gadreel’s Grace, and knows the exact moment the angel realizes Sam has recovered enough to survive without him. He still needs serious healing, sure, but it’s work doable from the outside. Gadreel lets it float unsaid between them. He doesn't stop his work, either (Sam thinks he's focusing on his spine, for some reason), but there's a question there, yet unspoken.

A few things pass through Sam’s mind, and zero of them have to do with kicking the angel out.

He enjoys this thing they have going on, this synergy, this companionship. Sure, he wants his body back, but… he doesn’t quite want to lose this just yet, either.

He’s awake and feeling better than he has in years, and it dawns upon him: he finally, _finally_ understands why Gadreel's light within feels so dim. The angel hasn’t just healed him, but he’s done so at the expense of healing himself. 

"Why?" he asks.

_"You had reason to expel me. I had to make certain you would survive in such an event."_

"You've been hurting yourself to help me,” he says, flat and even, as though he’s too astonished to believe it.

_"I came to your aid,"_ he replies plainly, as if it explains everything.

Maybe it does. Maybe angels once felt the same way before Gadreel got locked away. How they’re _supposed_ to act now, but don’t.

Maybe Sam can survive on his own now, but Gadreel still needs _him_ , whether the angel admits it or not. At the very least, the angel needs to heal himself, too. Something protective warms within Sam, wraps itself around the wounded angel fiercely. 

"Let me come to yours, then."

Gadreel responds with a jumble of confusion.

"You should stay here until you're healed," Sam explains. "I'm an archangel’s vessel. That has to have some kind of perk for you, right?"

Gadreel doesn’t answer, but he doesn’t have to. Sam knows he doesn’t want to leave yet, and how he feels at home in the bunker. He has friends and companionship and the idea of being alone again terrifies him.

Sam takes a breath as he listens to Gadreel’s many conflicting thoughts. Well.

"Gadreel,” he calls, and the angel stills his thoughts to listen. “ _Yes_.”

The angel doesn’t comprehend his meaning, confusion growing again.

“Listen to me, Gadreel,” Sam says to the room. “I’m saying ‘yes.’ To you.” He pauses, worrying at his bottom lip for a moment. “So far, I’ve told you that you could stay. That I wouldn’t kick you out. But I never actually gave you a clear, unbiased yes.” He lets his head drop back against the pillow. “So, until you’re better, until you’re healed yourself, yes. I’m saying yes. Unless… you don’t want to stay?”

_”No, I… I do like you, Sam. I enjoy your company very much.”_

Sam smiles. “Stay a while longer, okay? At least until you’re a little better.”

There's a flood of emotion again, less overpowering but no less vivid. And now, a new feeling flitters through his awareness: the angel feels _undeserving_ of Sam's kindness, of his words. And it makes Sam so sad, because the angel has been nothing but gentle, kind, and protective.

And so, he keeps healing Sam. And begins work on himself, too.

 

* * *

 

Out of the blue, Gadreel levels him with a surprising confession.

_”There was one other like you,”_ he tells Sam _. ”One who showed kindness to me. His name was Abner.”_

Sam’s reading when the angel speaks, so he stops, puts down the book, and gives him his undivided attention.

_”The archangels imprisoned him in heaven for seven hundred years. We both weathered the pain of torture. For him, it became too much. I had long become accustomed to it, but he had not. I tried to help, to make it less painful for him.”_

He pauses, stricken. _”He was the first angel to show gentleness to me in so long.”_

It’s quiet for a long moment as Sam feels a terrible ache in his chest, an emptiness, a loneliness. “What happened?”

_“He was killed shortly after being released,”_ Gadreel finally tells him. _”They told me as a cruelty. They said because I wasn’t there to put him back together, no one else cared enough to try, and so he died after a battle.”_

Sam feels rage bubbling up inside of him. _Friggin’ angels_ , he thinks. But he pushes the anger aside, and stretches his consciousness around Gadreel, pulling him into a warm and tingling embrace.

“I’m so sorry,” he whispers.

When he opens his eyes, he finds himself in the Library, his arms wrapped around Gadreel, who leans into him, accepting whatever comfort Sam might provide.

His eyes sting. Gadreel really does deserve so much better than this crap.

If the angel hears him, he does not respond.

 

* * *

 

Kevin starts babbling gibberish again, and Gadreel comes to his rescue, soothing pain and lulling him gently asleep.

He’s troubled. “Do all prophets suffer so?” he asks Sam.

His mind wanders to the missing-in-action Chuck. _“The last prophet did. He had terrible headaches when he’d have visions.”_

Gadreel frowns. “They have not asked for this burden. Why would God grant such a terrible fate upon those who can barely stand it?”

Sam would shrug, if he could. _“And you wonder why I don’t pray anymore.”_

Gadreel says nothing, choosing to settle the blanket more firmly around Kevin instead.

 

* * *

 

Of course, they’re on a hunt gone wrong. Dean’s gone missing, and now Sam and Jody have found themselves staring down a pissed pagan god who’s knocked Sam flat on his ass. 

“What’s wrong with you?” Vesta shrieks.

Sam draws in a shaking breath as he stares down the demi-goddess. “What?”

“Dear boy, you’re all duct tape and safety pins inside. How are you alive?”

Anger coils low and hot in Sam’s bones, something ancient and righteous surging and filling every part of him. Sam’s overwhelmed with it, with the rush of emotion and he thinks he may have never seen Gadreel this pissed off before.

The angel pushes forward without asking, seizing control with such a rush of Grace it leaves Sam trembling from the raw exposure of it—or would, if he had control of his body.

“Do not _touch_ him, pagan filth!” the angel spits, rushing forward with his hand outstretched. Sam can already feel the power gathering in his palm, Grace burning hot in anticipation of the smiting. Vesta stumbles backwards to avoid him, but like always, Gadreel’s as unavoidable as oxygen. 

Gadreel gets as far as clutching at her shoulder before Jody comes up from behind, thrusting the oak stake through the goddess.

Vesta stares up in horror, meeting Gadreel’s eyes for a moment, and Sam feels a low rumble of satisfaction gushing through his bones. His eyes narrow, and a dark smirk curves his lips as the goddess explodes in blue flames.

Jody stares at Sam in open shock for a moment—she’d known the situation, but seeing it has her staring with wide-eyed fear. And Gadreel hasn’t calmed, he’s still as angry as a minute ago, and Sam’s almost drowning in the intensity of it.

Finally, he bows his head, closing his eyes, and Sam feels white-hot Grace reaching out, caressing him. He’s actually pissed off because the goddess tried to hurt Sam.

Since when did he become worth getting upset about? Sam thinks it’s strange.

Gadreel makes a low noise of disagreement in his throat, but the trap door springs open and Dean’s head pops out.

“What did I miss?” he asks frantically, glancing around.

There’s a pulse of _embarrassment_ from the angel, as if he suddenly remembered they had an audience. So Gadreel retreats, deeper within Sam than he’s been in months, Sam thinks maybe _he’s_ the one who’s been missing everything.

 

* * *

 

Back in the bunker, Sam sits on the couch with Mary, listening to her purr contently. When Sam holds Mary, she sits on his lap. When Gadreel holds her, the kitten claws its way up to his shoulder and purrs endlessly. Somehow, the cat can tell the difference between Sam and Gadreel.

Sam pulls gently at Gadreel, and the angel surfaces. The kitten notices, her tiny head lifting to stare up at them, tilting in a uniquely feline manner.

“Hello, little one,” Gadreel murmurs, gently lifting the kitten and placing her on his reclined shoulder. She rubs her face against his neck, and settles in to continue her nap.

These moments feel so calm. Sam loves them, loves how not-alone he feels. Delights in how this angel, this steel-faced Wall of God loves soft kittens and gentle purring in his ear.

_”Why did you feel embarrassed?”_ Sam asks him. _“Back there with Vesta?”_

Through eyes he doesn’t control, he sees his vision go distant and unfocused. It’s silent so long Sam thinks the angel might not answer. Well, that’s all right, he supposes. The angel has a right to privacy, too.

The thought sends a distinct feeling of displeasure through him, and he can feel the angel resist the urge to shift in the seat. He doesn’t run, though, so Sam counts it as a development.

“I am protective of you, Sam,” he finally answers. “The thought one might take you from this earth in such a terrible way…. I became angry.”

Protective. Of Sam. Huh.

“And of Dean, Kevin, and Castiel, of course,” he adds, but it’s a rushed afterthought, and not without some frustration.

Sam can’t figure out why Gadreel would feel protective of him; why he would feel anything other than a grumbling animosity for the vessel he’s in but doesn’t actually take. Sam’s just a warm body to house the angel, after all.

“No,” Gadreel interrupts him, his tone sharp. “Do not think this way. It is untrue.”

But it is true, he thinks. He’s the boy with the demon blood, the one who let Lucifer loose, who started the Apocalypse, who failed to complete the Trials…

“Stop,” Gadreel admonishes him. The kitten shifts on his shoulder, mewling at the noise.

_“I let Lucifer free. People died. I drank demon blood.”_

Gadreel remains silent a moment. “Were you not fooled?”

“ _What?”_

“The demon, Ruby. The one Dean has spoken of,” Gadreel says. “Is she not the one who misled you into setting the Lightbringer free?”

Sam feels cold.

“You let him out. I let him in,” Gadreel says.

_“It’s different,”_ Sam argues.

“It is not.” After several long moments, Gadreel’s voice continues. “It makes little sense you would blame yourself, yet hold me blameless for my own trespass.” He pauses. “We have both made mistakes, but we both deserve a chance.” He sighs. “Sam, you are blameless in these events. Surely, you know this?”

Sam sullenly thinks he doesn’t feel blameless. Shame, misery, exhaustion, they all overtake him. Everything has piled up and never gone away, all the things he can’t scrub clean… It’s why he went through the Trials to begin with, because they would purify him, but he didn’t even finish those.

Grace wraps around his very essence, warm and pure and powerful, more insistent than ever before. He thinks he might drown in it. It’s hot and bright and so amazing, this embrace Gadreel holds him in, and his soul screams for it, for more.

“Sam Winchester,” Gadreel says softly, “You are a good man. I have seen your soul, and it shines like the sun.” He pauses. “You deserve good things.”

Sam hesitates. _“What about you? You still blame yourself for the Garden. Lucifer tricked you, too.”_

The angel sighs. “I do. But… the terrible things in its wake, they were not my doing. Just as the Apocalypse was not yours.”

_“You’re innocent, too.”_

Gadreel hesitates, restless. “I… deserve a chance to redeem myself.”

_“That’s not an answer.”_

The angel smiles faintly. “No, I suppose it isn’t.” He pauses a long moment. “Yes, I yet blame myself for my weakness.”

_“But you didn’t do it.”_

“No. But the absence of my diligence—.”

_“Lucifer fooled you,”_ Sam interrupted.

Gadreel hesitates. “Yes.”

_“Then why am I blameless and you’re not? You just said what we did was no different. That the things that followed weren’t our doing.”_

Gadreel breathes deeply. “A human saying I’ve heard—the pot calling the kettle black—would seem to apply.”

_“I don’t think you’re using it correctly. And it’s not a complimentary saying.”_

Gadreel huffs softly. “I am aware.” 

It’s silent a long while, and when Gadreel speaks again, his voice has become impossibly soft. 

“No one has ever told me I am blameless before.”

Sam would frown, if he could. _“No one’s ever told me that, either.”_

The angel sighs, and Sam feels a rush of heartache not his own tearing at him.

“We are so alike, you and I,” Gadreel whispers, his voice stoic as ever, despite the twisting pain he feels underneath. “Seeking redemption. Hungering for the understanding of our brethren.” He pauses. “Unbelieving of kindness offered to us.”

It’s the most intimate thing the angel has ever said to him. And he’s kind of right, Sam thinks. The both of them seem kind of miserable and alone.

Gadreel’s light pulses within him warmly.

Sam does not feel worthy, certainly not of this. A demigod has just told him he’s barely held together with duct tape and safety pins, and the angel not only tends to his physical wounds, he’s trying to soothe Sam’s worries, too.

Gadreel’s eyes fall closed, and he sighs, his stony façade crumbling a fraction. “I shall show you, then.”

For a split second, Sam feels like he’s touched the surface of the sun itself and lived to tell the tale.

He doesn’t have a chance to ask what’s going on before he’s nearly blinded by the force of Gadreel finally manifesting within him fully, truly, for maybe the first time, at least when Sam’s been conscious. Actually, scratch that, definitely the first time, because he’s _never_ felt this before.

Sam never realized how little control the angel had ever truly taken.

There’s so much heat and light and his vision nearly whites out, and instinct drives him to dig his fingers into the cushion, but they don’t move. The Grace no longer swirls warmly from the angel’s hiding place, but instead lights him with pure ecstasy, and he’d weep with the angel’s beauty if his eyes would listen. He’ll full-to-bursting with the angel’s light and it feels _wonderful_.

Through the haze, he has a vague sense this feels wonderful for Gadreel, too, who shivers as the moments pass. Taking an unsteady breath. “Sam, would that you see yourself as I do.”

It’s exceptionally hard to form words, especially self-deprecating ones, in this moment. He feels something fond and impossibly kind gather round his mind, pulling him in closer and Sam’s just lost in it, selfishly grasping for more.

“I _am_ you, Sam,” the angel murmurs. “Every atom of your body glows with strength and courage.”

It’s acceptance, kindness, affection, loyalty, compassion, all rolling off the angel’s Grace in waves and taking Sam apart to pieces inside. It’s too, too much sensation, his entire body on fire with Gadreel’s emotions, emotions somehow more powerful than his own. Sam knows he can’t escape the onslaught, but he doesn’t even want to try. He just lets the intensity of Gadreel’s acceptance and affection press in all around and inside of him, so blinding Sam thinks he might shred to pieces but knows all the same he won’t.

Sam feels everything. He feels his own injuries, but there’s no pain, only the soothing warmth of Grace. He feels broken wings beating against his own back, feels the massive, heavy arch and length of them, pulsing and glowing. And he _sees_ : lines of Grace, a true form of an angel which should spill out of him, but somehow tucks inside as if he’s a puzzle piece that fits there. 

At some point, Sam gains control of his body again, and his head has drooped back on the couch, His voice has gone raw and his mouth hangs open in a soundless moan, because it’s pure, unfiltered ecstasy for the both of them. Sam’s never been connected to someone this way before, not even Lucifer. Gadreel accepts Sam, and Sam hadn’t realized until that very moment how fucking desperate he’d been for it.

_”I will be your wall against all who would tear you asunder,”_ the angel’s voice rings in his head. _”So long as you are yet my vessel, I will defend you from all.”_

And as sudden as it began, Gadreel retreats, his Grace swirling up and tucking back inside of his body. Sam pants where he lies upon the couch, tears streaming down his face, feeling so empty he can barely breathe. But there’s a tug—just enough to remind him the angel hasn’t really gone anywhere. 

Sam feels only raw desire and desperation for closeness in its wake. He longs to have the angel back, just like he’d been a moment ago, the both of them mingling and touching, Grace and soul somehow communing, and both of them so together in the same skin. It feels as though anything else after experiencing Gadreel could never seem real enough.

If the angel hears him, he says nothing, and Sam shirks away in embarrassment.

He’s not in love. No. Absolutely not. But it’s possible he’s well and truly fucked.

The kitten makes an annoyed noise before hopping down to settle on his lap.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You could always visit my [Tumblr](http://hopesetfree.tumblr.com/) and say hello!


	7. Chapter 7

It’s two days later when Sam finally says what he should have said ages ago.

“I never thanked you for saving my life,” he tells Gadreel. 

The angel stirs within him, a flutter of curiosity skittering across Sam’s skin. _“You need not express gratitude. I came to your aid willingly.”_

“But still,” Sam stresses, pulling a shirt over his head. “Thank you. I… I had given up, you know? So thank you for saving me, even when I didn’t want to be saved. Thank you for saving me when you felt frightened, and I didn’t feel worthy of saving. Thanks for not leaving me when I was a jerk to you.”

As he shrugs on his flannel overshirt and sits at his tiny desk, book in hand, he muses quietly on how the whole situation could have gone sideways, and yet, somehow, _didn’t_. He can’t believe something went their way for once, and now he has… _this_. Whatever this thing between them has become. His chest aches at the thought of losing it.

Gadreel’s discomfort hums within him, a silent agreement. “You have always been worthy, Sam Winchester. I will never cease in my attempts to prove to you otherwise. I would save you again and again. You leave the world a better place while inhabiting it.”

The words leave Sam curious as he considers the other night, when Gadreel had blinded him with the ecstasy and intensity of full possession. The cascading sensation of a rushing comet, but no pain; only bliss.

“Why don’t you take control like that?” he asks. “Manifest yourself? Whatever you call it?” Sam frowns at the words on the page, shutting the book and setting it upon his desk. “Wouldn’t you have an easier time doing stuff?”

He doesn’t have to define _‘that’_. They both know what he means, and for once, it’s something neither one of them truly wants to think about. Sam can’t help but wonder why Gadreel’s shy about it.

A thrum of unease snakes through Sam’s insides. _”I am inexperienced in this regard, so I cannot speak for my brothers. But… I do not believe angels typically…. possess individuals in the manner you and I have become accustomed to.”_

“What do you mean?” 

_”They_ take _vessels. They do not share them.”_

Sam shifts, considering. It makes sense. “So, _that_ whole experience was sharing? You and I _were_ both kind of in control, it seemed.”

Agreement echoes within him. _”My brothers and sisters owe so much to this world, and yet they only take. They have forgotten our true mission: to protect and bow down to humanity.”_

Sam doesn’t disagree with him, though the idea of anyone bowing down before him leaves his stomach done up in knots.

The angel sighs within. _”I harbor no desire to take from you, Sam. I find I am much more content to share. To give what I have, and to share in what you give.”_ He pauses. _“I feel…. at home.”_

Sam props his face against his hand, leaning his weight on his elbows. “Don’t you ever feel stuck? Trapped?”

This time, warmth unfurls underneath his skin, soft and pleasant.

_”Your soul shines with a light I’ve never known, not even in Paradise. Nothing could feel further from a prison.”_

Sam has no idea how to respond, so he jumps back to the previous topic. 

“Gadreel, when you’re done healing, when you leave…” He pauses, because the idea of Gadreel leaving causes his blood to run cold. “You do know you have a home here, right? Just like Cas and Kevin, you’re one of us now. You don’t have to feel alone anymore.”

The angel doesn’t seem to know how to respond, but his Grace glows brighter than the sun, and gratitude sinks deep into Sam’s essence. 

 

* * *

 

Two days later, Sam’s chopping up ingredients for a salad when Castiel shuffles into the kitchen. He tosses a “hey” at him, but Cas only nods, averting his eyes as he goes for the peanut butter in the cabinet. Sam ducks out of his way, grabs his own food, and makes for the table.

Deep in thought over a case, he jolts when a plate clatters on the table in front of him. He glances up to see Cas taking a seat, his expression pained and morose.

“How are you, Sam?” he asks, taking a careful, neat bite of his sandwich.

“I’m doing a lot better. Thanks.”

The former angel doesn’t answer, choosing instead to stare at his sandwich as if it holds the secrets of the universe. Finally, he asks the question Sam and his angel have waited months to hear.

“And Gadreel? How is he?”

The angel does the equivalent of sitting up straight in Sam’s body, the rush of almost-motion tickling Sam’s sides. 

He does his best to shrug, as if nothing unusual had just happened. “He’s healing, too.”

“Ah. Good.”

Sam beams, unable to resist. “He’s happy you asked.”

The kitten wanders into the room, sniffing the floor by the table. Cas reaches down and takes Mary into his arms, scritching at her head before setting her on the table. He stares at Sam as though he’d just parted the Red Sea. “I don’t understand. Why?”

Sam casts a forlorn glance at his salad, and sighs. He can eat later. If he can get Cas and Gadreel talking, it’s totally worth skipping a meal.

“You’re his brother, Cas,” Sam tells him. “He’s been working hard to prove himself lately, you know?”

Cas says nothing. He just seems so lost.

“It certainly can’t be because you’re both angels on the run, or that he hasn’t talked to another friendly angel in a _very_ long time.”

Cas snorts, taking another bite of his sandwich. “I’m no angel,” he says, mouth full. “No Grace, no power to do anything.”

Mary rolls over to her back nearby, chasing an imaginary something with her paws.

Sam can feel powerful, longing emotion stir within Gadreel, his desire to reach out and comfort his brother so tangible gooseflesh forms on his skin. So Sam pulls back and invites the angel to take control for a while so he can talk it out with Cas.

He hesitates, but takes Sam’s offer. Sam encourages the angel from the sidelines. _Just try_ , he presses.

Gadreel gathers himself, and speaks. “You are a better angel than most, Castiel.”

Cas’ expression of self-reproach morphs into surprise, and hey, as far as Sam’s concerned, it’s a start.

Cas stares down at his sandwich, his appetite perhaps gone.

“Gadreel, I never expressed my gratitude to you for resurrecting me.” He pauses. “Thank you.”

A warm, happy glow curls low in Sam’s chest, spreading out until his fingers tingle. “You are welcome, Castiel.”

The two angels talk, haltingly at first, but as the minutes pass the conversation picks up until they’re both elbow-deep in Enochian. A sensation, a ghostly thought leads Sam to think Gadreel’s catching up on recent history in Heaven, but he’s not trying to tune into the angel’s thoughts so much right now.

After a few more minutes, when it becomes evident Cas and Gadreel are going to seriously keep at it a while, Sam lets himself drift to the huge library in his mind, the one similar to the bunker’s. He settles on the long, luxurious couch and shuts his eyes. He still hears snippets of the conversation at times, like voices muffled through a pillow.

He lies there, and thinks he should probably feel alarmed at how content he feels in this moment, but pushes it aside and drifts asleep. He’s put off this existential crisis this long, and if he’s honest, he doesn’t think it’s going to happen at all. So he rests in it, content, basking in how he feels better than he has in a long, long time.

At some later point, Sam wakes up to the crackling fire, the only light in the darkened library, and finds a blanket spread out atop him. Gadreel sits across the way, on the floor near the fire, cross-legged and still as a statue. He’s facing in Sam’s direction, but his eyes are closed, back ramrod straight, and he appears to meditate.

Sam can still feel his real body, back in the bunker, settled somewhere cozy and warm. Somehow, he just knows he’s in his room, warm and comfortable in bed. The idea that his angel had thought for Sam’s comfort for when he awakened made something in his heart clench.

Much like the roar of the fire, Gadreel’s Grace glows hot, and dare he say it, _happy_. Sam can feel joy pooled in his belly; feels it like stardust in his bones. 

He wonders if it’s time to have that existential crisis yet. 

Instead, he just grins, staring at the angel sitting in peace and contentment on the floor. Sam knows if he thinks about it too hard, if he lets Gadreel’s emotions overwhelm him, he’ll drown in it. So he just shuts his eyes and falls back to sleep. 

For once, everything feels good, and Sam has no desire to rock the boat.

 

* * *

 

A week later, a church glee club dusts a biker gang at a bar, and despite the risk, the serious angel-on-angel violence has become something they need to check out. They’re researching Metatron’s strange angelic exorcism lately, too.

Gadreel doesn’t relish the idea of hunting other angels—or encountering them—but goes along with it because Sam does. Also, Sam suspects he wants to watch over Dean and Cas, too, since he’s the only powered-up angel they have at the moment. Glorified groundskeeper or not, his Grace has recovered significantly since he’s stopped splintering it to heal Sam. 

Besides, having a friendly angel along for the ride always gives them some insurance.

Sam never stops feeling amazed at how Gadreel’s gone from running _from_ these kinds of things to running _towards_ them, all because he’s become protective of their little family. They might as well get him a Team Free Will badge at this point, or something.

Of course, everything goes sideways, and they manage to show up at the exact wrong place at the wrong time. 

Sam’s pouring over old journals with Cas at a grimy motel table, while Dean’s miles away interviewing someone. With no warning at all, a team of angels storm in, their unblinking eyes focused on Castiel.

At first, Sam finds himself flung against the far wall as one winged dick barrels towards him, angel blade in hand. Of course, an angel would attack first and only bother to ask questions later. Sam rolls out of the way quickly, leaping back up to his feet even as Gadreel's power surges forward like a mighty wind, fierce and more intense than _ever_ before.

Sam expects Gadreel to take control, but it doesn’t happen. Something else, something _beyond_ description, takes place: Sam keeps control of his body, but all of Gadreel’s power and strength itches at his fingertips. Their minds surge together, swirling in Sam’s head, and they’re so unified in motion and purpose they’ve become of one mind. 

Any other time, Sam would ponder the trust it must take to allow Sam control of his body when enemies Gadreel fears so greatly stand right before them. Except Gadreel _is_ in control… and so is Sam. They’ve become two who move as one, and Sam no longer knows where he ends and Gadreel begins.

He has no time to spend in wonder of this. The attacking angel descends upon him, his blade lifted high in the air. With augmented strength, Sam easily blocks his arm, twists, and the attacker loses his grip on the blade. Sam catches it with practiced ease, flips the hilt over into his palm, and drives it into the other man's chest. White light spills from his mouth, his eyes, roaring through the whole room.

There's a moment of stunned silence as the other two angels regard him warily. Castiel’s in trouble, limp and too-quiet as one angel grasps him. The other angel seems torn between attacking Sam or defending his partner.

"Let him go!" Sam hisses, the power in his voice causing his skin to tingle and his ears to twinge. As he postures, angel blade in hand, he feels powerful. Ancient. _Loyal_. Gadreel's loyalty to both Sam and Cas shines hot like sunlight, radiant from the surface of his skin.

Sam understands. Gadreel will fight. His angel will not allow them to leave with Castiel _or_ to harm Sam. 

"You're an angel," the one gripping Cas mutters, shaking his head, eyes wide. "But I don't recognize you."

"Pleased to make your re-acquaintance, once you release our brother." As soon as he's spoken, he releases control back to Sam, but all of his angelic power remains, running in tendrils of Grace underneath his skin. Sam tightens his grip on the blade, and takes an advancing step.

The two angels share a glance, and Castiel groans in the shorter one's grasp. Not unconscious, then. Just stunned.

"Whoever you are, this doesn't concern you," the taller one comments. "Malachi wants Castiel, and you're a fool to get in his way."

Sam feels Gadreel surging again, his lips moving and the angel's words breaking loose, even as there's a profound sense of pointlessness to what he's saying. "Brothers, we are _not_ creatures of wrath. We were created for compassion!"

"Compassion? For Castiel?" the blond retorts with a snort. "We're just following orders. You know what Malachi would do if we disobeyed? If we had it our way, if most angels had it their way, he'd be dead already."

Sam feels Gadreel's frustration, his desperation to make his brothers understand, and also his unwillingness to allow them to leave with Cas. 

"You shall not leave with him."

With a thought, he extends his power and slams the door to the hotel room shut, trapping the five of them inside.

"Then you make yourself our enemy," the taller one says, and takes a menacing step forward. “Who _are_ you, anyway?"

Sam remembers Gadreel's roiling fear of this very situation: finding himself trapped with Cas when the other angels caught up. And yet, here he stands, refusing to flee. The thought of running doesn’t cross his mind. Gadreel stands ready to die for Cas, his friend and brother, and he knows Sam agrees, too. This unity of purpose and power makes the Grace flowing through his limbs burn hotter.

"I am _Gadreel_ , the Wall of God," the angel booms, wielding his name like a weapon. 

Sam knows, without a doubt, Gadreel’s not spoken his own name and _owned_ it like it meant something in too long of a time.

Both the angels stare back, slack-jawed and wide-eyed, and Sam takes their brief moment of shock as an opportunity to lunge forward.

The taller of the two doesn't have a chance. Sam catches him so off guard he's dead before a full three seconds pass. The shorter, blond angel clutches Castiel's body as if it were a shield. Sam advances...

...and the door flies open, two more angels piling in, blades drawn, launching themselves at Sam. He narrowly misses them, having to spin and roll out of the way. He catches one in the torso with the angel blade as he rises, but has to leave it behind in the flurry of movement.

The other angel has more skill, but Sam can do this dance better. After several close calls and more than one parried blow, he retrieves the blade from the fallen angel's torso, pulling it out with a wet slurp of a noise. He strikes the other angel in the chest, right through the heart.

For a moment, Gadreel freezes, panting with strain, staring around at the bodies with the horrified realization he's just slain three of his own brothers. They are the first angels to ever die by his hand, and if he had time, he’d lose his stomach.

But it lasts only a bare second. His next panicked thought falls upon the empty room, and how Castiel and the blond angel have vanished. Without so much as a plan, he tightens his grip on the blade and runs out the door with abandon, knowing with certainty the pair couldn't have gone far. At least with all the angels wingless, he knows they’re still within reach.

He's right. Across the parking lot, the angel tries to stuff Castiel in a car. Gadreel launches himself at full speed towards them.

Or maybe it’s Sam who’s running. Or both of them. Sam’s dizzy with Grace and power, and he feels like an angel _himself_. He’s become so unified, so at one with Gadreel, and he doesn’t know anymore. He is both Gadreel _and_ Sam.

He leaps forward, tangling with the kidnapping blond. Sam’s a warrior, unlike Gadreel, and makes quick work of the angel. 

All at once, the strange unity ends.There is Sam, and there is Gadreel, and they have reverted to a human vessel and a possessing angel. No longer one, but two.

From the confusion, Gadreel emerges in control, and pulls Castiel back out of the car.

"Castiel? Are you injured?" he asks, even as he touches two fingers to his forehead, knitting together sinew and healing wounds with power Sam's sure Gadreel doesn't have to spare.

"I’m all right now," he says, standing up straight. A moment passes, the two gazing at one another. It makes Sam feels a little awkward, like he's the unwelcome guest, because Castiel and Gadreel have become such good friends in so short a time. They chatter every day about a world of things Sam’s not privy to, and sometimes he has to push forward and ask Gadreel to cut it short because there’s work to do.

But now, only understanding and compassion shines in Cas' eyes, and Sam knows it’s something his angel has craved. "Thank you, Gadreel."

But he hears something else, now. It’s high pitched and tinny, and entirely inside of his head, and it takes a few moments before Sam realizes he’s hearing and _understanding_ angel radio for the first time ever.

Something uncomfortable flitters across the angel network, full of unease and anger. A name echoes around the world entire: _Gadreel, Gadreel, the traitor, the fool. He’s here._

Alarm seizes the angel, but he feels unsurprised by the reaction his name inspires. Sam, on the other hand, outright panics, even as Gadreel hands control back over to him.

"We gotta go," he tells Cas. "Right fucking now. I think Angel Radio just lit up on us."

Cas nods and moves with purpose, requiring no further explanation. As Sam runs back into the room, grabs his laptop and bag, he hears Cas speaking to Dean on the phone, beckoning him to return quickly.

"Angels are on their way!" he shouts across the room, talking over Cas, hoping Dean will hear him across the room. Not taking any chances, he grabs the phone from Cas’ hand, and yells. “Get your ass back here, _now_.” And with that, he tosses it back to the slightly bewildered Cas.

They scurry out the door, and head out on foot towards a dirt road leading to the main drag. Both of their bodies have protection engraved into flesh and bone to shield them from the angels’ eyes, but wards won’t help if they can’t put distance between the hotel and themselves.

As they flee, Sam notices— _feels_ -—how small Gadreel has become within him, smaller and tinier than he's _ever_ felt before (except maybe the time he stayed unconscious for two weeks straight, but it’s a close thing) and it's only then Sam realizes how much power his angel has used. He’s done too much damage to himself.

"That was appreciated," Cas says, interrupting Sam's attempts to examine Gadreel, "but your method was unwise."

"Look Cas," Sam answers him, "We couldn’t let them take you."

There's a pause, a somewhat bitter grunt spilling from his lips as they half-run, half-walk. "I am referring to your name, Gadreel." He hesitates. "It was not wise to reveal your true name. They will hunt us both, now."

The irony stings.

The roar of the Impala tears through the night, screeching up the road behind them, and Sam's not sure he's ever loved the sound of that car as much as he does now. And since he sees shadows moving in his periphery, it's _really_ time to jump in and go.

Dean brings the car to a sliding halt and throws open the door, hopping out even as Castiel and Sam make a break for the backseat.

"The fuck happened here?"

"Get in the car!" Sam shouts in way of reply, colliding with Castiel and using the momentum to push him securely in the backseat. "Now, now!"

Dean's nothing if not perceptive in a battle, and just as Sam dives in, he's crashing back into the driver's seat. Sam scrabbles for purchase against the seat (and Cas, for that matter) as his long legs awkwardly hang out the car as it begins to move.

Before the car has really taken off, while it's still kicking up gravel, a crushing grip closes around a leg, and he’s tugged out of the moving car in a second's time. He has no chance to prepare for the face full of gravel and dirt, for the twisting roll his body takes as it rolls on the ground, even as he breathes in the Impala's exhaust.

He lies face down for a brief moment, pain blooming throughout his body, then rolls over to meet a pair of eyes, angelic and gleaming blue. Gadreel surges forward once again, Grace suffusing Sam’s entire body as they’re unified once again. Sam and Gadreel both together, as one, in control.

Sam surges upward, rising to block a downward thrust of an angel blade, arm to arm—he curses how he’d lost his own in the backseat of the Impala. His deft movements leave the angel outmatched, swinging, overpowering, turning the blade back on his attacker and burying it in his chest.

The Impala spins around in the distance, whirling to face them. As Sam pulls the blade from the angel's body, bloody and tingling, he realizes he’s attracted the company of more than a dozen angels.

Nope. Not going to end well.

The wingless monsters circle around them, boxing them in, and Sam spares a glance at the Impala, silently begging Dean to retreat with Cas. He doesn't know if Dean has the capacity to actually leave him behind, but he so desperately hopes he's learned something from Sam's lectures on too much co-dependency. Even more angels gather, and even if Cas and Gadreel both stood at full power, they could never win this fight.

A few seconds later, when more angels show up and descend upon the Impala, it roars back to life, spins around, and tears down the road away from them. He feels a heavy swirl of rot in his gut, surprise and relief and terror flooding him all at once in a terrible deluge. But he's just so thankful Dean has finally understood. Sam would never ask him to sacrifice the one he loves for his own sake. So he spares a thought, if not a prayer, that Dean and Cas should escape safely and live in happiness (it has been too long since he prayed, anyway).

 _"May they go in the arms of Your Grace and Your love, Father,"_ Gadreel adds, praying where Sam will not. The words fly up to his absent Father, even as he thinks God would not care to hear him, anyway. It's so desperately sad.

Sam wobbles on his feet, facing the circling crowd. Gadreel's strength wanes, shards of glass raw against his skin, even as the angel fights to press his Grace forward. But it's like Gadreel's trying to climb a wall made of sand. Everything crumbles when he grasps it and he only keeps falling. A wound on his face from the gravel bleeds into an eye. His throat has gone raw and scratchy.

The angel cries out within his mind, a noise to make Sam’s ears hurt as Gadreel’s Grace shrivels up. He apologizes to Sam. 

_"I am sorry, Sam. I am so deeply sorry."_

They both know he doesn’t have time to heal, to recharge his angelic energy. Even if he could freeze time and regenerate, Sam and Gadreel couldn't take on all of these angels alone. They have no escape.

But the crowd keeps its distance, leaving Sam to wonder what the hell is going on. He expected swift attacks and near-instant death by now. 

As he ponders it, the angels part, and a man with dark-hair and an unkempt beard steps forward. A sickly, twisted grin spreads wide on his lips, like spilled ink on parchment.

"Gadreel," he greets, his voice all fake-pleasant. "I was surprised to hear of you, especially in the company of Castiel!" He pauses, frowns in concentration, and his eyes go wide. "Is your human vessel _Sam Winchester_?"

Gadreel takes control. "Is it not rude to insult a brother without introducing oneself first?"

The angel cackles. "Me? I'm Malachi. When I heard your name, well, I had to come myself." He looks him up and down, his eyes shining with dark mirth. "How appropriate you'd choose Lucifer's true vessel as your own!"

Gadreel doesn’t respond. Not to defend himself, not to argue, nothing.

Sam stares at the scene unfolding before him through eyes and limbs he feels but cannot move, and it feels so different than any other time Gadreel has taken control. And all at once, Sam’s pain evaporates, his injuries still festering, but all sensation gone. Even as Gadreel speaks, what dim light remains wraps around the hunter deep within, a powerful desire to cocoon and protect Sam overwhelming the human.

Sam looks on as Gadreel faces the very thing he's feared since falling to Earth: the wrath of his brothers and sisters. And yet, in this moment, all of Gadreel's worry concerns _Sam_. He knows he inhabits Sam's body, and if they kill Gadreel, it will also kill Sam. A panic rises within the angel as he desperately tries to think of a way to give himself over that would spare Sam.

But he can think of nothing, and they both know the task to be in vain. Gadreel refuses to stop, though, desperate to save Sam. So Sam reaches out, touches the warmth of the burning, bright angel inside, gentle and soothing. 

_'It's all right,'_ he tells him. _'We’ll stand together.'_

Gadreel swallows thickly, a habit he picked up from observing Dean. He gives Sam the equivalent of a nod, and turns his full focus to the outside, as does Sam. Gadreel feels comforted he doesn’t have to face it alone, but the relief makes him feel selfish. But Sam wraps his soul about him, and stands with him, also glad of all the ways he could go, he won’t die alone.

"I’m not surprised you’re so quiet," Malachi snips. "Behind Castiel, you're angelkind's most despised." He crosses his arms, shaking his head as he chuckles. "And riding a Winchester, of all possible vessels. How did you manage to swing that when it took Lucifer a whole year to manage it?"

Gadreel remains silent, though Sam feels a pang of guilt flow through him as the angel recalls his duplicity required to get a 'yes.' His hand grips the angel blade firmly, his eyes narrowed at the unknown faces around him. Angels he does not recognize stare with scorn, disgust, and hatred, and the weight of their judgment makes his eyes sting and his hands tremble. His despair at their rejection makes Sam’s bones groan, and so he tries to soothe the angel from the inside. If they’re about to die, he won’t have the angel believe he’s worthless. Not again.

"Ah, so stoic," Malachi laughs, and turns his back on Gadreel. "You should drop your blade, you know. You'll never kill us all." He glances back over his shoulder. "I'd much rather you come with us quietly."

Sam can hear Gadreel thinking he'll do no such thing, before pausing to consider it. "I will go with you willingly, and allow you to do whatever you wish, if—.”

"I can already do _anything_ I want," he said. "There are twenty of us, and one of you."

Gadreel hesitates, but presses on. "You would have a willing and cooperative prisoner."

Malachi seems to turn it over in his head. "And what is it you want?"

"Allow my vessel to go free and unharmed. He has not trespassed upon you. I am the one you seek revenge upon."

Sam might have fallen out of a chair, or stumbled, or coughed had he heard those words in any other situation. He doesn’t like the idea, not one bit. He's ready to die in battle, standing unified with Gadreel. He's doesn’t want to run away.

Malachi exhales, and shrugs. "And that's why humans should think more carefully about saying 'yes.'"

Gadreel bristles, and Sam can feel him grasping at straws. "He did not consent."

It draws Malachi up short, his face twitching in confusion. The crowd murmurs around them. "You couldn't possess him if he didn't consent."

"I tricked him," Gadreel continues. "I never told him I wanted him as a vessel. I disguised my possession as an answer to a call for help. When he said ‘yes' to my offer to help him, I worded it such that I obtained consent He has not yet awakened to realize his mistake."

It's a lie, obviously. Sam’s wide awake and capable of ejecting Gadreel. But the angel wants to protect him, and will drag his own reputation even farther into the mud to do so. Sam can’t figure out why he’s trying so hard.

Malachi nods, impressed. "Fascinating. Brilliant, even. I bet Lucifer wishes he'd thought of it."

Sam feels displeasure ache inside of him with each comparison to Lucifer, and he's not sure if it's his own pain or Gadreel's, or both. Probably both.

"Please allow him to leave," Gadreel presses.

Malachi clicks his tongue. "No." He waves his angel blade lazily in the air. "He's still a Winchester. Your vessel there? He tried and failed to seal up Hell. We would never let him go."

Gadreel closes his eyes, steels both himself and Sam, and postures, ready to fight. "Then this is how it shall be."

Malachi quirks an eyebrow at him, disappointment in his face. He raises an arm, flicks two fingers in Gadreel's direction, and all at once, the angels advance upon him.

Gadreel fights. Sam fights. They share the body and fight and fight and fight until pain and blood and darkness overwhelm the both of them.

 

* * *

 

When Sam awakens, it's possibly the worst possible moment to come to awareness.

The angels have shackled his hands over his head, his neck trussed with a collar (probably Enochian spellbinding, he guesses, to cage Gadreel's Grace). He feels a slickness on his skin and strange sensations of tingling numbness everywhere. Most concerning, his voice screams in a way he's certain his voice has never done before. Something twists in his gut, invasive—it _shouldn't be there—_ but he feels no pain at all. Instead, it all tingles, numb and cool.

His body gives a ragged, shaking gasp when the _thing_ slides free, his eyes trained on the ceiling. A moment later, the wretched thing returns and he howls again, the piercing, tonal True Voice of the angel ringing clear above the wailing of his human vessel.

It takes a good ten seconds for Sam to get even remotely oriented in the middle of this onslaught, even though he feels no pain. Nothing makes sense at first, not until he understands he must have stayed unconscious for a period of time while Gadreel remained awake. He realizes the angel has pushed his consciousness under on purpose.

The twisting thing digs deeper, feeling so strange, and Gadreel's desperate screaming grows more frantic. Sam’s confusion clears, and he realizes despite the fact they're torturing Gadreel, he's not feeling a speck of pain or discomfort himself. 

The damn angel _still_ protects him.

Sam concentrates, checks the both of them as best he can when the thing—a knife, he finally sees—slides free. Gadreel’s shouting dies to a burned-out groan. He quickly sees Gadreel's energy, the last essence of his Grace, burns into shreds as he tries to use what precious little of it he has to keep Sam at arm's length away from this.

His energy has grown low indeed if he can no longer lock Sam in his own mind; to keep him from consciousness.

Malachi’s soldiers keep at it, Gadreel's exhaustion overwhelming as he remains upright, painfully so, by his wrists. He can’t sit or rest at all. If he stands upright, his legs ache with the sting and burn of his wounds, numb patches to Sam, but pure fiery hell for Gadreel. If the angel takes pressure off of his legs and lets the chains around his wrists support him, his shoulders feel as though they’ll rip from their sockets.

After a time, his tormentors leave, but angels don't sleep, and Sam knows this respite will only last a moment.

Gadreel doesn't bother hiding his thoughts, so they ring loud and clear through to Sam. He's light-headed and nauseous from so much pain, but straining to hold onto consciousness because so long as he can think, he can protect Sam from this pain. He feels certain of it (more than Sam), certain if he concentrates, he can keep his vessel from the pain, even to the end. He’s known worse torture before, after all.

At some point, Gadreel begins to lose the battle for consciousness, and Sam finds the two of them inhabiting their Library, the peaceful shared headspace Sam has come to enjoy so much.

Sam's perfectly fine. He's upright, standing, and feels okay. Conversely, Gadreel trembles and whimpers on the floor, bruised and bleeding.

Sam all but drops to his knees, gathering the angel in his arms, cradling his cold, blood-slick skin. Sam wants to help him so much, and it's all so unfair. He wishes he were stronger, better, more powerful; somehow able to help him instead of being a liability, to—.

"You are perfect just as you are, Sam Winchester," Gadreel says against his chest, his voice whisper-soft. It sounds like it takes effort to speak, even here. He presses fingers to Sam’s lips, as if to stop him from saying anything else. 

And the angel means it, each word, and Sam's eyes sting, his mouth gone dry. He wants to scream and scream about the unfairness of the situation, about how Gadreel deserves so much more than being stuck inside of a loser like Sam, who has failed everyone over and over again, and—.

"Stop, please," the angel whimpers against his chest. "Do not think such untrue things of yourself." After a moment, "Please, not now."

So Sam just holds him, only briefly notices how close they’ve become and how strange this might seem in any other circumstance. He brushes those thoughts away as he desperately offers Gadreel any comfort he possibly can. He holds his shivering form close to his chest, as if to suffuse him with warmth (as if his soul could compare with an angel's Grace, he thinks, followed by a gentle response of, _but it does, it's beautiful_ ).

He touches Gadreel's cheek, brushes his thumbs gently against his temples, and holds him as much as he can. Words evaporate away, and only emotion remains. Compassion and tenderness, devotion and loyalty, and if the both of them weren’t dying, it might have felt beautiful.

Sam doesn't stop to think about it, doesn't hold himself back. He just _feels_ , and shares it all with the angel, who returns the gesture, and they together share their own kind of communion in this place, with soul and Grace buried deep within flesh and blood

 

* * *

 

Sam doesn’t often find himself awake afterwards. It's only when the torturer prolongs Gadreel’s suffering and gets terribly creative that his control slips enough for Sam to awaken. He never feels pain, but knows Gadreel swims in it, drowning. And yet, he wastes his own precious Grace to keep Sam's senses intact, free from the agony he suffers constantly.

They heal his body, always when he's virtually dead. Gadreel knows nothing of value to tell them, and they’ve figured this out by now. He seems like the angel everyone takes their frustration out on, just because they can. Because they like it. Because it's _fun_.

It's not unlike being worked over in Hell by a group of demons. But this isn't Hell, it's Earth, and these aren’t demons, but angels. Sam thinks, after his time in the cage with two royally pissed archangels, maybe Hell just imitates Heaven's methods. The demons had to learn torture somewhere, after all.

Sam doesn't know how long they've been there, only that at least a fair amount of time has passed. He would imagine a few days. Gadreel doesn’t comment, even though Sam knows he's heard him. Either he doesn't want to burden Sam with the truth, or he doesn't know himself.

In any event, the torturer of the day—a gruesomely talented angel by the name of Theo—begins again, and Gadreel knows nothing but pain.

"Go ahead," Gadreel rasps, his voice a screeching rasp in the midst of all the wards and torture, but his gait remains steady and, if Sam could guess, downright intimidating. Sam has a tall body, after all. "Poke and prod. I can stand here for years and endure this over and over again. I've endured so much worse than this." He tilts his head downwards, narrows his eyes at his torturer. "So. Much. Worse."

Of course, Theo takes this as a challenge, and it's several minutes later before Gadreel stops screaming long enough to speak again. And he laughs openly at the other angel.

"For all your posturing, for all your theatrics, you will always be a coward. A traitor to your own brothers."

Theo grabs his face, hisses at him. " _You_ dare to call _me_ a coward? A traitor?"

"How many angels have you slain?" Gadreel fires back, his eyes blazing with conviction. "How much agony have you wrought upon our brothers and sisters by your own hand?"

"You ruined everything! The whole universe!" he shouts, and punctuates this with a stab of an angel blade into Gadreel's shoulder. It twinges with power and fire, drawing a long moan of pain from the angel, and even Sam feels it.

Gadreel has to concentrate to regain his breath. "I did not allow the Morningstar into the Garden. He fooled me. I made a mistake. But you, Theo, for all your bluster, the agony you've brought upon our brethren has been by your own hand, and your own choice."

Sam puffs up, something akin to pride in the angel. Finally, _finally_ , his angel maybe believes it.

Theo backhands Gadreel so hard Sam can feel his cheekbone crunch under the assault. He doesn't feel the pain, but feels the angel's shudder, feels him fighting away the agony only he can feel.

Gadreel struggles against the chains binding his hands for a moment, the bounds keeping him standing upright with no hope of rest. He grits his teeth, his lips twisting into a bloody smirk. "You should be running, Theo, while you still may. Metatron, this war, it will kill us all."

His words earn him an especially sound beating, but the angel endures it. Gadreel thinks it’s worth it to see a spark of terror in Theo’s eyes, he thinks. Sam doesn't exactly agree, but he'd rather have his angel defiant than defeated.

 

* * *

-

 

"Do not worry," Gadreel says, his voice a tiny rasp, even in the quietude of their Mind Library. "I have endured far worse while imprisoned in Heaven, and for far longer. They cannot break me. I will keep you safe from this so long as we draw breath."

Sam has to resist a shudder, because the idea, the _knowledge_ , Gadreel’s had worse terrifies him. He rubs soothing circles against the angel’s back, trying not to think about all the ways could get worse. Sam tries not to think about how the angel has known imprisonment since the dawn of time and for most of his existence has probably known nothing but torture.

"Dean will look for us," Sam tells him, keeps telling him, because it's the only salvation they might have. "We'll get out."

The angel does not believe him, but nods anyway, remaining silent.

Sam doesn't blame him, because he doesn't know how Dean and Cas would pull it off. This place would be a deathtrap for them both, so he kind of hopes they stay far away. 

He tightens his arms around Gadreel's heavy frame, embracing him. The angel's head lies against his shoulder, his body splayed loosely in Sam's lap. He's amazed he still has any form at all, at how he's even still alive. But until a truly fatal wound falls, they can string Gadreel up and do anything they'd like, and he won't die.

And Gadreel _wants_ to die. It’s been there, all along, a desperate emotion in the undercurrent of everything else. Here, he can’t even begin to hide it.

But he refuses to take Sam with him.

It’s the culmination of all of his suffering, Sam thinks. All of his sorrow, all of his moodiness, the troubles of millions of years culminating in a desire for it just to all be _over_. An angel who feels lost, confused, and scared, and just wants peace and quiet.

And Sam, holding the angel in his arms, bows his head over and weeps. He has nothing to give Gadreel, nothing he can do for him. 

"Sam," he groans, weak and soft. "Thank you for returning my name to me."

His eyes sting, and he turns his head aside. Even now, however long it's been, Gadreel still spends his energy adoring and thanking Sam.

Time passes in silence. Sam rubs his back slowly, gently. Without thinking, he turns his head towards Gadreel, drops his neck slightly, letting a kiss fall upon the angel's forehead.

Sam might worry about it, about what it means, but he chalks it up to affection and comfort now. In fact, he's pretty sure he'll do it again at some point, because damn it, Gadreel deserves some kind of fondness, and some kind of warm affection. _Anything_ but this endless torture that seems to define so much of his long, terrible life.

Sam lowers his face into the angel's sandy hair, closing his eyes and breathing deeply. He’s no longer weeping, but for all the emotion he feels, he might as well.

"Sam," Gadreel murmurs again, drowsy. Painful. "Sam." Like he's choking on it, half-delirious.

Gadreel falls unconscious sometimes, after they torture him for a _really_ long time. He often becomes confused and delirious just before he passes out.

"Save your strength," Sam murmurs, wiping at wounds and smeared blood on his face.

"I’ve heard no word more beautiful in any language," Gadreel mutters anyway, seeming not to hear him. "Nothing more glorious." He mumbles something incoherently, pauses a moment, and babbles Sam's name again, over and over.

Sam has no idea what he's going on about, but it isn't the first time. This state of confusion will last until Gadreel rests— _truly_ rests. Most of the time, he just babbles Sam's name, as if reminding himself he must always stay on guard. And the angel will finally rest, until someone sees fit to awaken him with new terror.

It all overwhelms Sam. He has to do _something_ , whatever little he can.

He wraps his consciousness around Gadreel’s dim Grace, and pulls hard, tugging him into an embrace more fierce and tight than ever before. The angel gasps against him, whimpering, and Sam only continues because he knows the embrace feels good to Gadreel. Not painful. _Soothing_. Gadreel needs more soothing, and less punishing.

He tugs at his Grace until the angel returns the pull, dragging at his consciousness and his very soul. They draw as close to each other as possible, entwined like silver fire, Grace and soul wrapping around one another in a dance unlike anything Sam’s ever known before. And then it’s not just Gadreel’s Grace and Sam’s soul, but it’s _everything_ both of them are, tugging, pulling, embracing. It’s almost like the time Gadreel manifested within him so fully, sharing everything so intensely, but this? It’s, brighter, hotter, closer, and Sam feels like he’ll burst with it. He never wants to stop. It’s like basking in starlight; in the fiery heart of a galaxy. 

Gadreel gasps. Or Sam does. He can’t tell who is who anymore. He feels like _both_. Soul and Grace don’t just wrap around each other anymore, but they _touch_ , and mingle, and blend, and become one, and it’s bliss and joy and peace….

And for a long time, Sam knows nothing but starlight and searing heat and Gadreel.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't really have an excuse for how long this update took. Sorry. (Also, plot is happening yay)
> 
> You could always come say hello to me at my [Tumblr](http://hopesetfree.tumblr.com/)!


	8. Chapter 8

The torture continues, of course. Gadreel seems to have found new strength to endure it, somehow, his Grace shining more than before. It’s a slight thing, though. The angel still hangs on by bare threads.

Then one day unfolds different than all the rest. Sam's awake, and while Gadreel screams, Theo laughs. All at once, there's a flash of silver, and a maelstrom of noise. Something sweeps through the room like blinding starlight, and Sam's fingers tingle with the awareness of loose, flowing Grace. A moment later, Theo groans, and an explosion of light fills the room. Their torturer falls to the floor.

Sam's confused, while Gadreel, though his senses remain scraped raw from the pain, seems to understand what's just happened. He does not get the opportunity to explain before hands are on his shoulders, shaking him.

"Sam!" calls a voice, and it sounds suspiciously like Dean's.

Gadreel's head has flopped backwards at a painful angle, and he's unable to muster the strength to move. He groans a noise of acknowledgement, spilling from his lips like gravel. He clacks his teeth by accident, his tongue sliding across his too-dry mouth, and he can't form words—though he's putting an excruciating amount of effort into it.

"It's Enochian," says another voice. And oh, _thank fuck_ , it sounds like Cas. "It cages an angel's grace."

"Get it the fuck off of him, now!"

And Sam feels hands working the collar around his neck, snapping it free, and Grace long trapped underneath the surface of his skin expands—though it remains weak and thin. His eyes remain shut, and no matter how Sam tries to open them, tries to coax his angel to do it, Gadreel can’t. So Sam tries to push forward, to take control of the body. It prompts a rush of alarm from the angel, who weakly pushes Sam back down.

_"Don’t,"_ he warns. _"The pain, it shall overwhelm you."_

But Sam wants his eyes open, craves the sight of his brother and Cas. But fear of the pain stills his efforts, and he stops fighting Gadreel.

_"I told you,"_ he tells the angel, reassuring. _"I told you they'd find us. We’ll be safe now."_

A bubbling rush of warmth, fondness, and pure gratitude sweeps through him before the angel turns his attention back to communication. He groans in the dreary, dank room, taking a heaving breath as two hands come to cup his cheeks and tilt his head forward, the touch gentle and careful.

"Sam? Sammy?"

It takes incredible effort, but the angel finally manages to open their shared eyes. The world has gone blurry and wobbly, and he can’t make out the faces before him so well. But he can see just enough: the twisted lines of worry on Dean’s face; Cas hacking at the shackles on his wrists.

The angel tries again to make his voice work, but it feels like sandpaper dragging over pavement, so he abandons the idea. He bobs his head at Dean instead, hoping he’ll interpret it as a nod.

The lines of Dean’s face change, near imperceptible, so he must have succeeded.

"Is Gadreel still with you?" Cas asks, yanking hard on the shackles.

He nods again, a slow, bare inclination of the head, and he's trying to make his voice work again because he doesn't want Dean worrying about any pain Sam may have endured.

"Sam," he manages to croak, "is... all right. I… I protected—."

"Gentlemen, in the event you've forgotten, we're in a den of angels," a calm voice calls out, and it's only then Gadreel and Sam both notice Crowley surveying their apparent path of escape. "Do save the happy reunion for later, and let's be off, shall we?"

For the first time ever, Gadreel feels happy to see the demon. Ridiculously happy. Under any other circumstances, Sam might laugh.

The thought evaporates as Cas manages to free one of his hands. His entire body goes limp, all of his weight crushing his still-chained wrist. Dean and Cas both lunge to catch him, and he falls heavily against them, accepting their help to stand. Cas positions himself so he can continue to work on the other wrist.

Dean has his arms wrapped around Sam, propping him up as best he can. "Gad? Gadreel? You the one in charge right now?"

Only now does his vision clear, perhaps a side effect of his unyoked Grace. "Yes," he murmurs. "Sam... I... shielded him… from this."

Something changes in Dean's eyes, and it shines like gratitude. “Is Sam awake?”

Gadreel nods. “He is, but he feels nothing. He… he can hear… you.”

Dean pats his back, tightening his grip on the weak angel. “Take it easy, Gad. Sam. We gotcha, now. We’re going to get you _both_ out of here.”

The angel feels such profound relief at Dean’s words, and Sam wraps himself around Gadreel to comfort him. They made it. They’ll be all right.

Cas frees his other hand, and it flops lifelessly down at his side. Gadreel all but collapses into Dean's and Cas' waiting arms.

He doesn't know how it happens, precisely, but he guesses Cas and Dean (and maybe Crowley, too, because Sam knows he's got a heavy body) carry him out of there. His legs certainly don’t work, and even if they did, he has no strength to move.

Something cool and soothing spreads across his forehead, and Sam opens his eyes long enough to watch Cas press his palm against his clammy skin. They're in the Impala, now, and Sam realizes he’s lost time while everyone did the escaping thing. Dean drives and Cas hovers over Sam's and Gadreel's shared body, while the demon rides shotgun up front.

He feels searing heat, just shy of painful, followed by a relaxing rush of warmth cascading from the top of his head to the tips of his toes. Sam can feel Gadreel almost weep in relief.

"Rest," Castiel tells him.

Gadreel's shaking hand grips Cas' own. "My brother, my brother," he croaks. Check that, Gadreel _is_ weeping. He babbles a prayer in Enochian, and Sam _feels_ rather than hears the words.

_Praise Castiel, Your compassionate and honorable servant. Let his name be known to the universe entire. Let our brethren sing of his good deeds._

Sam _still_ can’t get over the fact Gadreel prays to the Father who tossed him in jail and threw away the key.

Cas' eyes moisten, and the harsh lines of his face soften more than he’s ever seen. He leans over, his voice soft as his breath tickles their ear, hand warm on their shoulder. "You did well," he tells Gadreel. "You protected your vessel when others would have sacrificed them for their own sake."

Neither Sam nor Gadreel can fight the pull of sleep, the draw of the profound rest dragging them down.

“Rest,” Cas repeats, and they do.

 

* * *

 

When Sam next wakes up, he feels perfectly fine, which strikes him as odd.

He cracks an eye open in the faint morning light, the dark horizon morphing to a royal shade of blue. Sitting up to get a better grasp on the situation, he sees Cas squatting next to him in the floorboard, scrutinizing him. Crowley sits in the front seat, prim and proper and absolutely silent for once. Dean, of course, still drives.

Sam can’t feel Gadreel. At all. He’s a half-second from panic when Castiel rests an arm on his shoulder. 

“Gadreel rests in a profound state of unconsciousness,” he says, his voice hushed. “He’ll take some time to recover.”

“Why do I feel fine?” Sam asks.

“Because I healed you. It’s simple to repair a human body. Gadreel’s Grace, however, presents a lot of difficulty.” He pauses, pursing his lips slightly. “Sam, he’s very weak.”

He blinks, all the news swirling in his dizzy mind. “But you were human. Your Grace, you…?”

“I stole Theo’s Grace,” Cas tells him. “Don’t worry about me.”

The low rumble of conversation has captured Dean’s attention, as Sam sees him glancing in the rear-view mirror. “Sam? You okay?”

He takes a breath, and nods. “Cas took care of it.” He turns back to the renewed angel. “Thank you.”

Cas nods, but his expression remains somewhat grim. It leaves Sam with a rotten, heavy weight in his stomach, roiling as he considers Gadreel’s plight. But for now, Sam turns his gaze to the front seat, where Dean lets loose a great, big yawn. 

“How did you guys find me?”

“Fumbles the Wonder Demon here had a connection,” Dean answers, voice gruff with exhaustion. “He tracked down one of the angels who’d taken you.” He hesitates. “And uh… I’m going to take care of something for him, in return.”

Oh, _God no_ , Sam thinks. What did Dean do _this_ time?

“ _And_ I walk free now,” Crowley says. “Of course, I couldn’t leave until I’d heard the praising adorations of my favorite Moose.”

Sam frowns, and thinks about telling the demon to go screw himself, but… well. He did kind of save their asses. As much as he’d like to stab him in the brain, he’d also like him to go away now.

“Thank you, Crowley,” he drones, monotone. “You saved my life. And Gadreel’s.”

The demon wears a cheeky smile until the mention of the angel, and the lines of his face turn sour. “Oh, yes, the holy roller… _Do_ keep quiet about that. I can’t have my reputation sullied by rumors of helping angels.” He looks Sam up and down. “Anyway, you seem fine, so… time for me to stage an exit.”

And the demon vanishes, leaving Sam to blink at the sudden departure. He can’t believe Crowley actually stuck around to help him. 

The car falls silent, the only sound that of the engine roaring beneath them. Sam shuts his eyes, and searches for his angel, but can’t find him anywhere. It’s difficult not to panic.

“So,” Dean says, his voice like a knife against the silence, “how’s, uh… how’s Gad doing?”

Sam lies back down in the seat, shuts his eyes once more. “I don’t know. I can’t feel him at all.”

“It seems Gadreel sacrificed much of his Grace to protect Sam,” Cas explains, his eyes dark and lips twisted into a frown. “He may recover over time, but… Sam, if you were to eject him now, he would not survive.”

Sam shakes his head, the thought leaving a bitter taste in his mouth. “No way. Not after everything he did for me back there.”

“In your post-torture state—.”

“ _I_ wasn’t tortured, Cas,” Sam interrupts. “ _He_ was.” Sam glances away, staring up at a spot on the roof. “He really did protect me. I never felt a thing.”

It’s silent for a long moment, until Sam hears Dean mutter something softly under his breath, shaking his head.

“Is that why he’s so weak?” Sam asks, not meeting Cas’ eyes. “He tried to keep me under, but I would wake up sometimes. Did it hurt him even more?.”

“Yes,” Cas finally says, “it did. But it isn’t the only reason.”

He doesn’t elaborate, and for once, Sam doesn’t want him to. So he turns his attention to Dean.

“Dean, what did you do?” Sam asks.

“What?”

“You said you were going to take care of something for Crowley. What?”

“Oh. That. He thinks he knows a way to gank Abaddon, so we’re going to hunt ourselves a Knight of Hell and ice that bitch.”

The car falls silent, and Sam thinks it doesn’t sound too iffy. Dean _had_ been pretty determined to kill Abaddon anyway, so…

“What Dean isn’t mentioning,” Castiel says, his voice a growl between gritted teeth, “is he’ll have to obtain a special Mark—a terrible _curse_ —to do so.”

Sam doesn’t even know what that means, only that it’s bad news, and he’s too tired for this shit right now.

“Dean,” he groans, readjusting his position in the seat. “This conversation isn’t over.”

Dean doesn’t argue with him. “Just get some rest, Sammy.”

He closes his eyes, and allows the sound of the engine draw him into a fitful sleep.

 

* * *

 

Cas continues to give him healing sessions, but Gadreel doesn’t emerge. Sam can’t quell the worry hovering as a constant weight in his chest. He has a thousand questions, fears, wonders if maybe Cas’ stolen Grace just can’t do the job. He’s also worried Cas’ stolen Grace will eat him alive, though he assures Sam it won’t do so. Yet.

“Gadreel is still there,” Cas reassures him. “I can sense him.”

Sam’s glad at least one of them can. “Why can’t _I_ feel him?” Sam pleads with Cas (but only when Dean’s not around, because he doesn’t want to have to go _there_ yet). “We have this headspace where we go and talk, and he’s not showed since you rescued us. He’s been out of it before, but he was still there, sleeping.”

Cas tilts his head, thoughtful, but not worried, and it soothes Sam’s fears just a bit. “Perhaps ‘profoundly asleep’ is a better way to describe it. I am healing him as best I can, and so he exists in a deep state of recovery, absorbing the energy as he heals.”

He takes a deep breath, nods, and glances away from the angel to the floor. “You _can_ heal him, right?”

When Cas doesn’t immediately answer, it’s pretty much the only answer Sam needs.

“Like you before him, he’s damaged in ways I cannot heal.” He pauses. “Angels, however, are quite resilient. I’m sure he’ll recover on his own.”

“But cut off from Heaven’s power, like you were those years ago, he’ll—.”

“Remember,” Cas interrupts, “he’s still an angel. We _are_ resilient. Don’t worry, Sam. He’ll be all right.”

Sam wants to close his arms around his chest, as if to draw the angel within him deeper, closer. He wishes he had some warm, healing source within him to blanket around the angel. It’s a useless gesture, but he closes his arms against his chest anyway, hugging himself.

The room falls silent as Cas moves about, gathering items on the table behind him.

“Sam,” he says, “I must say, I wish I had been more like you.”

He swivels his head to stare. “What? Why?”

“You care so deeply,” he answers, “so fiercely.” Cas tilts his head, but there’s something infinitely more human about him now. “You fearlessly challenge things that intimidate lesser humans.” 

“I’m not so sure about that, Cas,” he protests.

“I am.” His eyes go distant, gaze resting on the table. “I took this body from Jimmy Novak, and never chose to know him. As an Angel of the Lord, I told myself I had a mission, that my vessel’s life belonged to me, now. So I locked him away.”

Sam listens, considering.

“At some point, we angels forgot God intended us to become close with our vessels; to make them stronger, not rob them of their freedom and torment them.” He glances back to Sam. “I feared Jimmy’s influence, so I did not engage with him.” He pauses. “You and Gadreel, the pair of you are… unusual.”

Sam nods, slow and understanding. He had figured as much, given what he’d seen of angelic possession in years past.

Castiel continues. “Because you had previously given him access, Gadreel could have tapped into the power of your soul while he suffered. It would have empowered him, but at the cost of harming you. Just as when any angel touches a human soul, you would have recovered, but it would not have felt pleasant.” He sighs, and places his hand on Sam’s shoulder. “It is astonishing to me he did not do so.”

Sam frowns, because he doesn’t like the sound of it. Gadreel could have made things easier on himself, but didn’t? 

“I’m not really surprised, Cas. He’s a good angel.”

A ghost of a smile creases Cas’ face, fondness softening his eyes. “I know.”

“Is there anything I can do to help him?”

A smile blooms on the angel’s face, his fingers squeezing Sam’s shoulder gently. “Call to him, Sam. If he hears you, he will fight to awaken.”

Sam frowns. “Can’t you reach him? You’re both angels, so can’t you use angel radio or something?”

His smile doesn’t falter, something soft and kind shining in his eyes. “I do not share the… profound bond you and he share.”

What?

Oh. _Oh_.

Somehow, Sam’s not surprised at all.

 

* * *

 

Halfway through a healing session with Cas, Kevin marches into the room, angel tablet in hand. “Guys, I know why Metatron made this damn thing so hard to read!” He’s actually _smiling_. Something must be wrong.

Cas halts, and Sam blinks, his heart jumping at the surprise of the intrusion. Dean just swivels his chair in place, staring at the prophet.

“Spill it, Kev,” Dean says. “We need some good news.”

“This thing,” Kevin begins, and waves the angel tablet, “isn’t just the Word of God. It’s a _weapon_. Any angel who gets their hands on this can cast a series of spells and power up, and I mean hardcore. Like, become a new God, hardcore. All you need is the tablet in your hand, and a drop of your own Grace, and you’re good to go!”

Cas’ expression falls. “Well, that counts me out. I don’t have any of my own Grace.”

Dean and Sam meet eyes at the same time.

“But Gadreel does,” Sam breathes.

“But he’s still not awake,” Cas said.

Kevin marches over to Sam, holding out the tablet. He takes it, tentatively, staring back at the prophet in some confusion.

“I think it can help him,” Kevin tells him. “Like when Cas was brainwashed by Naomi. If it has all that power in it, maybe it can wake him up.”

Sam stares down at it, his mind drawing a blank.

“That’s not a bad idea,” Cas chimes in. “It _was_ helpful in freeing me from Naomi’s influence. It may confer some benefit on Gadreel’s recovery.” He pauses. “You can direct Gadreel’s Grace yourself, after all.”

The stone tablet feels old and dusty beneath his fingertips, and the symbols hurt his eyes to try and read. “I don’t know what to do with this.”

“Just try holding onto it for a while,” Cas tells him.

Sam shares a glance with Dean, who shrugs.

“It can’t hurt to try,” he says. “We want your angelic pacemaker up and at ‘em sooner rather than later.”

Sam huffs, shaking his head. “I think right now I’m his _human_ pacemaker, not the other way around.”

The room falls silent for several long moments.

“Don’t you guys get it?” Kevin chimes back in. “This is huge! If Gadreel can use this thing, he might be able to undo Metatron’s spell. He could stop Metatron himself.”

“Except Metatron is stocking up on stores of Grace to power up,” Dean counters.

“And this is power God left for the angels to use,” Kevin argues. “Everything in these tablets mean something. Metatron _might_ be getting ready for the chance another angel could use it against him.”

Sam stares back down at the tablet, and says nothing for a long time. “Looks like we’ll eventually find out.”

 

* * *

 

Two days later, Sam visits their Library, buried so much deeper within his mind now. Shadows blanket the room, save for the small fire crackling in the hearth. He’s scoured this place every day, angel tablet in hand, hoping to find Gadreel. 

Today, he finds him.

He lies sprawled on the floor, bruised and bloody, his breathing no more than a rattle. He’s out like a light, still. Sam had expected as much.

He scoops him in his arms, and sets him upon the soft, oversized couch. Worried eyes sweep his slack, bloodied form. Sam maneuvers him from his mangled coat, followed by the soft, gray hoodie. 

It takes only a thought to summon a bowl of water and washcloth, and Sam sets about cleaning the wounds speckling Gadreel’s body. He’s not sure it matters at all, since they’re both just kind of like avatars or projections here, but it matters to Sam, so screw it. If any part of Gadreel is going to lie here and sleep, then Sam’s damn well going to make sure he’s somewhere in the neighborhood of comfortable.

When he finishes, he dries the skin, replacing the soft hoodie. He finds a blanket and draws it over the angel’s slumbering form to keep him warm. His task done, Sam sinks down into the adjacent loveseat and looks on.

Afterwards, he visits all the time, multiple times a day. Sometimes he spends hours just watching Gadreel breathe. His breath comes easier than before, less strained. It relieves Sam.

He sometimes places his hand over Gadreel’s chest, gentle, feeling the thump of the heartbeat against his palm. You know, just to remind himself his angel is still with him, safe inside his body.

One day, as he kneels beside Gadreel, his hand on his chest, his mouth dry and his eyes wet, he’s not sure he _ever_ wants Gadreel to leave his body. Despite his terrible run-ins with possession before, despite the desire for privacy and autonomy, this _thing_ they’ve built together means more to him, and he’s terrified at the thought of losing it.

The angel’s heart beats steadily against his palm, and Sam shuts his eyes and prays.

 

* * *

 

A few days later, Sam reclines on his bed while reading up on rougarus for a potential case, the angel tablet sitting neatly in his lap. Something rustles within him, deep under his skin, and he realizes Gadreel has stirred for the first time. 

He discards the book at once, and reclines his head, his eyes shut before the book even clatters to the floor. He rushes to their headspace, their Library, and drops to his knees at his angel’s side. His hands grasp his shoulders, squeezing. In his periphery, he sees the angel tablet on the floor, but he doesn’t reach for it.

Gadreel smiles at the touch, a weak twitch of his lips. His eyes remain shut.

“Sam, you are well?” he asks.

Of course he _would_ ask about Sam first fucking thing.

“I’m fine. Cas healed me,” Sam answers. “He’s been healing you, too, but… it’s going to take longer.”

He doesn’t say all the many things on his mind, about how the angel sacrificed too much Grace, or how he hurt himself for Sam’s _comfort_. He doesn’t say all of the things eating him with worry and guilt. He doesn’t blabber on about magical tablets. And he doesn’t say how happy it makes him feel, how relieved he is to finally _hear_ him, because he might accidentally think the wrong thing and scare the angel.

Gadreel moves one hand to rest over Sam’s on his shoulder, his smile soft and tired. “You are unreasonably delighted to see me. I would think you’d enjoy the solitude without me.”

In theory. Yeah, he would have thought that, too, once upon a time, but it’s totally not how it’s worked out. Sam wishes he hadn’t thought it so loudly, but… well, water under the bridge.

“This is what I mean,” Gadreel continues. “Almost no privacy.”

Even as he says it, Sam feels warmth bubble up in his chest, warmth that’s so very _Gadreel_. He’s overjoyed for Sam’s safety, for his health, even for his company.

“You should rest,” Sam tells him. “You need to recharge your Grace.”

His smile wanes, just a fraction. “Indeed. Though I would protest to say I am already resting quite well.” He opens his eyes for the first time to stare at him, and something in Sam squirms to see those hazel-gray eyes twinkle at him.

It feels so damn great to see Gadreel experience something other than misery, for once.

The angel’s lips part, as if to speak, but he thinks better of it. Instead, he just keeps staring at Sam, taking several long breaths.

The long gaze should feel awkward, Sam thinks, but it doesn’t. So he just stares right back, and reminds himself his angel made it. Gadreel’s fine. Safe.

“We’re okay,” he breathes, letting his fingers tighten around the angel’s shoulder. “We’re both okay.”

Gadreel’s expression morphs, the lines of his face softening, his eyes blinking slow, languid blinks. Sam thinks he’s drifting back to sleep.

“Yes, we are,” Gadreel murmurs, his voice quiet, his eyes full of such reverence it makes Sam ache, because no one should look at him like _that_ , ever, and—.

Gadreel’s hand tightens around Sam’s, halting the thoughts, his grip firm and unyielding. He doesn’t look away from Sam for a long time, not until he falls into a restful sleep.

Sam refuses to leave until he falls asleep himself.

 

* * *

 

Gadreel remains in the library for a long time. Sam doesn’t know if leaving takes too much effort on his part, or if he’s just kind of stuck there (he certainly doesn’t have the Grace for much else). But he doesn’t vanish or anything, so Sam’s glad.

Sam informs him of Kevin’s discoveries about the angel tablet, but Gadreel’s not sold. Sam holds it in his hands in the real world, and somehow the damn thing manifests itself in the Library, too. But Gadreel can’t seem to make it do anything. He theorizes he’s not worthy of such a power, but Sam shushes him. The topic becomes _extremely_ touchy after that, so Sam drops the subject. For now. They both know he’ll have to address it sooner or later, because if it means stopping Metatron, they’ve got to pull out all the stops.

So Gadreel remains in the library, resting and recovering. When Sam next drops in, he finds Gadreel reclining in the armchair, reading a book.

In all the times he’s been here, it never occurred to him the books might have actual words in them. He’d just assumed they were part of the scenery.

Curious as to what kind of books float around in his own head, Sam glances over the angel’s shoulder to see him reading an old college lecture on basic law.

The angel lifts his gaze from the book. “Hello, Sam.” He returns to reading, his expression faintly intrigued.

Sam’s still stuck on why one of his old lectures ended up in a library inside of his head… except, yeah, _of course_. Where else would it be?

He strolls over to the nearest shelf, paying careful attention this time. At first, he notices books cataloging classes he’s taken throughout his life: Introductory Chemistry, Humanities, History of Art. As he moves to another shelf, though, he realizes the titles become vastly different. A massive series, an encyclopedia’s worth, has mottled black and brown covers, and blares its title of “Guilt” in sickly green letters. An entire section, black as night, has the words “Demon Blood” smeared in… well, blood, all over the spines. Another section, this one with vibrant colors covering an entire floor-to-ceiling shelf reads “Jessica Moore.” 

Jessica…

It makes his eyes water. When he brushes his hand along one of the spines, he feels her laughter, her smile, echo through him.

He drops to his knees before he manages to jerk his hand back.

What’s going on, here?

He moves to another shelf, reading the titles as he goes along. Dean takes up more than two giant floor-to-ceiling shelves. Castiel takes up half of a shelf, even in the short years Sam’s known him. A few books farther down are bright red, the fiery color making him shiver. Glowing embers on the side of the spine say, “The Cage.” He’s surprised that section isn’t larger. 

He sees a book for everyone he’s ever known, and for every terrible and wonderful episode in his life. His eyes water as he thinks of Madison, Sarah Blake, and so many others…. He shakes his head, and mulls over how people who get close to him tend to die.

The titles don’t get any easier to read.

In the next row, he sees “The Abomination” and “The Boy King.” He swallows thickly as he reads more: “The Apocalypse” and “The Trials” make him shudder. “The Wall” comes up next, sickly gray and cracked on the edges where hellfire bleeds through. There’s a brief splay of color, and these books are named, “Amelia,” but the last one is a dark, unpleasant shade of gray. The next section is called “Failure,” a more sickly gray than the ones before it.

Sam looks away, unsure if he can keep strolling down this guided tour of memory lane. He takes stock of the books around him, and understands, finally. He had wondered about the nature of this strange place, this Library, before, but he sees now it’s literally himself they’re inhabiting… which shouldn’t come as such a shock as it does. Either of them can peruse any book they choose, and Sam knows if he thumbed through one, it’d spell out his failures one by one. His good deeds, too, but they feel so small right now.

Gadreel has remained here the entire time, knowing well the nature of the place, and yet, he has taken nothing. Sam supposes most angels would rifle through his head and just take his memories by force. But Gadreel is not like most angels.

When he glances back to the shelf, at the gray books growing darker and more frayed, the sickly colors end abruptly with a single white book sitting alone at the end of the shelf.

When he first tries to read it, it says, “Ezekiel,” but after he stares, it changes to “Gadreel.” He blinks again, but the name does not change again.

It’s not a pure, true white (more of an off-white or cream), but it seems absolutely _brilliant_ compared to the filthy tomes next to it. He lets his fingers rest upon the spine of the book, considering it a moment. The book sends a pulse of energy through him, like a warm spring breeze. It makes him feel warm. Comfortable. _Accepted_.

He wonders what the book says. He thinks he might read this one.

Sam rounds the corner of the shelf to examine the other side, and to his surprise, finds it full. He sees many, _many_ more books bearing Gadreel’s name, each one the same humble, off-white shade. And even more books follow. One book is a silly shade of green named, “The Wicked Witch.” He sees another set adorned in blue, which says, “Heal,” on the spine. Another says, “Trust.” And then he sees books as black as the night, which say, “Stand Together,” and Sam doesn’t have to use his imagination to know they’re referring to the torture.

The last book on the shelf shines, lush and green as a forest, and it makes Sam think of Gadreel in the legendary Garden he’s never seen. It’s soothing to the touch, and has no name. Sam plucks it from the shelf, opens it, but can’t read a thing. The letters continuously change, and some of the pages remain blank.

It is, he realizes, still being written. Probably many of these books are, he thinks.

He returns it to the shelf, and crosses over the library to the other row of shelves, wondering how many more secrets of his past his brain has chronicled. These shelves stretch out from one end of the Library to the other, far more immense than what he’s seen so far. It’s stuffed full of books of the darkest black he’s ever seen, cracked and torn and frayed at the edges. He sees pages yellowed with age and stained with something dark he thinks could be blood… but it’s _old_ blood.

He can’t read the spines on some of them, and frowns. Why? But as he goes further back through the shelves, his eyes begin to work. There’s, “The Garden,” “The Earth,” “Abner,” and “The Failed Sentry.”

With a bit of a start, Sam realizes he’s wandered into Gadreel’s books.

It makes sense. It may be Sam’s body, but right now, it’s Gadreel’s too, and this place is their shared headspace. It’s only logical for Gadreel’s life and memories to expand and fill the shelves, too.

He backs away, because these are private. No matter how curious he’s felt about certain things, he won’t rifle through the angel’s memories trivially. Gadreel doesn’t do it to him, as he’s often left confused until Sam explains some past happening or hurt to him. It’s only now Sam realizes how easily the angel could just _take_. The angel could _literally_ read him like a book, because _everything_ , his entire life, sits in this room.

Sam spins around, and catches Gadreel watching him, his gaze curious. Sam offers him a smile, and makes his way back to him.

“This Library, it’s… it’s me, literally me,” Sam says, still amazed. “And you, too.”

The angel nods.

“Is this… some kind of representation of how a vessel and an angel interact?”

The ghost of a smile tweaks the corners of his lips. “That is… somewhat true.”

“We’re somehow projecting in here, in the midst of all this?” Sam’s never asked before, because he’s just taken the space for granted.

The book in Gadreel’s hand lowers to his lap. “We are not projecting, Sam. We are literally here.” He smiles, just a fraction. “I am here, in totality. This is how you perceive my True Self.” His expression softens even more. “Everything we have shared in this place has been real.”

Sam’s stomach does a little flip, recalling so many tiny things done over time in this room. He remembered how he’d cleaned up the angels wounds (and realizes now what he’d thought of as an avatar was the real, actual Gadreel, and so it had, in fact mattered). He thought about how he’d held the angel. How he’d touched his face and soothed his pain during torture.

He had been touching Gadreel’s True Self. The thought makes his mouth go dry.

“Yes,” the angel tells him. “It all mattered. Certainly, to me.”

Sam had long known this grand library to be real in some way, though he’d only thought of it as a sort of mental construction. It’s not easy to think of places existing only inside of his head as strictly real in any sense, but… when he thinks about what Gadreel has said, it makes sense.

Sam takes another glance around, equal parts embarrassed and amazed, and he needs to lighten the subject. “And of all the things you could read, you picked an outdated lecture on criminal law.”

Gadreel smiles. “I am most enjoying the part wherein you tried to learn how to draw an anatomically correct face, rather than take notes.” He turns the book around so Sam can see it, and sure enough, it holds one of his rudimentary drawings from when he’d sort of wanted to learn art on the side.

He smiles. “That was a short-lived phase,” he defends himself.

“A shame,” Gadreel says, staring back down at the book. “I enjoy the attention you gave to your subject’s nose.”

“Seriously man,” Sam says, “this has got to be boring for a billion-year-old angel. There’s… better stuff around.” The statement makes something drop to his gut, but… yeah.

Gadreel looks up at him, the mirth gone from his expression, but the lines of his face still soft. “I would not intrude.” After a moment: “I promise you, I have not.”

“Oh, I believe you,” Sam quickly says, and it’s true. He hasn’t doubted it for a moment.

The angel’s lips part a fraction, and his expression of adoration returns. “You have such incredible faith in me, Sam Winchester. Why?”

He smiles, but he doesn’t have an answer, not one that doesn’t make him feel twisted up inside, heat flushing his cheeks. “You earned it.”

Gadreel stares at him as though he holds the mysteries of the universe in his palm, and his gaze falls away. When he meets Sam’s eyes again, his expression has grown incredulous.

“What is it… exactly… that you want?” he asks. “I would give you anything within my power.”

It’s a big question, and he thinks Gadreel could mean a lot of things. Maybe he wishes to know what Sam wants from him, what Sam wants from life, or even what Sam wants for breakfast (or, perhaps all of the above, it would seem). Sam would like to know the answer to these things, too. 

“Maybe you can tell me. After a little bit of light reading,” and he gestures to the books behind him.

He seems no less amazed, but now there’s an edge of something like hope. “You wish for me to peruse your memories?”

And yeah, Sam actually does. He wants Gadreel to see everything about him, the good and the bad, and…. Sam feels sullen as he thinks about the inevitable response, how the angel will turn away in disgust and horror. But then, _maybe_ he won’t, and _maybe_ he’ll still want to hang around, and Sam can’t help but hope a little himself.

Gadreel sets down the book in his hand and rises to his feet, placing a gentle, comforting hand on Sam’s shoulder. He can feel the angel’s desire to touch his face instead, but he doesn’t, and Sam doesn’t know if he should feel disappointed.

“Nothing could make me turn away,” he says firmly, his voice whisper-smooth and certain.

Sam wishes that were true. He hopes it is.

“You just haven’t looked hard enough, yet.”

The angel’s expression morphs, the lines of his face pinched together in frustration. “Sam Winchester, my Grace and your soul have touched. In that terrible place, when we embraced, the essence of us both met. I do not know precisely what this means, other than I know _you_.” He glances away, a soft smile on his lips. “I will not leave or forsake you. I could not imagine ever doing so for any reason other than your dismissal.”

Sam feels his heart drop to his stomach. Gadreel _can’t_ know what he’s saying, what it sounds like. Certainly not…

Whatever you want, Sam. If it is within my power to give, it shall be yours.”

The words make something raw ache inside of him, because Sam _does_ want, and it scares him. And more frightening, the angel seems to feel this need, and raises a hand to press against the side of Sam’s neck. 

“Tell me.”

Sam swallows thickly, feels off-balance and overheated and all nerves. “When… when you manifested before… And when we… it felt like we were one person.”

The angel smiles as he stutters his way through it, and Sam can already feel the beginnings of it inside of him. His knees grow weak with the sensation, even as Gadreel’s hands hold him steady. The same blissful rapture of heat and light and _Gadreel_ overwhelms him, and Sam doesn’t even pretend he’s not crying out, basking in the connection and warmth of the angel’s Grace. It cradles him and mingles with him until they feel like one spirit.

Words ripple through his mind, something he’d read long ago: ‘ _Have you no beginning and end? Which heart is the real one? Which eye the seer?’_

In the midst of it, Sam realizes several memories have come along for the ride—all of his awful, terrible deeds laid bare for Gadreel to see, to shirk away from. Yet the angel holds him tight, arms wrapping around him and Grace burning hotter.

As the light cools, as he returns to the knowledge of this body in the Library, he slumps into Gadreel’s arms. The angel holds him upright without effort, cradling the larger man in his arms. Sam burrows his face into Gadreel’s neck, and a hand, steady and sure, brushes warmly against the back of his head. Soothing. Comforting.

“I know every part of you, Sam Winchester,” the angel whispers into his ear, unbearably gentle. “I know every hair on your head, every memory troubling you, every dark corner of yourself you hide away.”

Sam wants to cringe, to shrink away and hide, but Gadreel’s embrace feels unbreakable, and Sam doesn’t have the energy to try and pull away.

“There is no part of you that could make me turn away,” he says, and Sam feels the angel’s cheek resting against his hair. “I will never forsake you, so long as you’ll have me.”

He pulls Sam upright, and Sam has trouble making his legs cooperate, because no one has ever said those words to him before. He can’t even say anything. His mind swims with emotion, his eyes sting, and he’s so overwhelmed with it all. He just doesn’t even understand.

When Sam’s legs regain some semblance of steadiness, Gadreel’s hand gently tugs at his shoulder. “Here, allow me to show you something.”

Sam turns and follows him through the shelves, through the chasm in the center separating his books and Gadreel’s, to a small, lone shelf in the middle.

“When I first came here, there was but one book,” Gadreel explains, gesturing at the small shelf. “Now, there are many, and it is my hope there will be many more.”

The books start out a dark gray, turning to green, until finally morphing into the most brilliant, shining white in the entire library. These books do not have names—at least, not yet.

“They’re in the center,” Sam breathes, staring up from his crouched position at Gadreel. “So… they belong to both of us?”

Gadreel smiles, his eyes bright (though, not nearly as bright as Sam one day hopes to see). “They are the books we write together.”

Sam returns the smile, and stares back at the ever-changing shelf in front of him. He wants to read these books most of all.

 

* * *

 

Time passes, and Sam’s soul and Gadreel’s Grace entwine even further with one another. To everyone’s astonishment, the angel heals, and quickly. It’s far, far better than anything they’d hoped for.

Castiel remains the only one who seems unsurprised, looking on with a knowing expression. Kevin, on the other hand, has convinced both himself and Dean that the angel tablet has worked a miracle.

One day, while Sam reclines on the couch in the Library, soaking in the warmth of the fire, and watches Gadreel idly read a book (it’s an old chemistry lecture, Sam thinks), his prior uncertainty on the subject has morphed into solid conviction.

He honestly doesn’t want Gadreel to ever leave.

He wants him to stay. He wants this thing they have to continue for as long as it can. He wants to hold the angel, wrap his mind and his soul around Gadreel’s Grace, and feel his Grace hold on just as tightly. He wants to hold the angel in his arms and soothe away every terrible thing that’s ever happened to him. He wants to kiss him and touch him and make him feel wonderful things, things he’s never felt before and could never even imagine.

It’s not as if he’s in love with the angel, he’d told himself before.

Except he is.

_‘Just because you do not say ‘love’, does not mean you are not, in fact, expressing love.’_

Sam has gone and fallen in love with the angel riding his body.

Well, fuck.

The angel reads on, unaware of Sam’s revelation. They don’t intrude on each other’s thoughts, thankfully, but…would Gadreel want that from him? _Could_ he?

Sam can’t keep it a secret long, and he finds himself suddenly very worried, because he doesn’t know what to do.

He settles for rolling over on the couch and closing his eyes.

 

* * *

 

“Come on,” Kevin pleads. “Just try.”

Gadreel, behind the wheel of Sam’s body, stares down at the table where the angel tablet rests.

“I cannot wield such power,” he answers.

“Gad, you’re not even trying!” Dean calls out. “Come on, just pick it up, use some of your mojo, and see what happens.”

_“Come on, Gadreel,”_ Sam encourages from inside. _“You can do this.”_

Gadreel hesitates, staring at the tablet a long, tense moment. “Castiel is a much more worthy choice.”

“But I can’t do it,” Cas interrupts. “I don’t have my Grace. You’re the only one who can. And Metatron? This angel war? It’s all chaos. If you can harness the power of this tablet, you can stop Metatron, reopen Heaven, and lead everyone home.”

Gadreel says nothing, shaking fingers extending towards the tablet, just short of touching them.

He’s afraid. It rushes through Sam’s skin like ice.

_“What if it_ does _work?”_ Gadreel murmurs to Sam. _“How can I wield such immense power without harming others?”_ He pauses. _“I am not worthy.”_

Sam sighs within, and wraps his soul around Gadreel's’ Grace again in the embrace they’ve become so fond of. _“You were God’s Most Trusted. I think if anyone can do it, you can. And I believe in you, Gadreel. You_ can _do it.”_

He hovers just short of the tablet, and then he’s touching it, raking the pads of his fingertips over ancient letters. They hurt his angelic eyes to try and read, but the Kevin’s beside him, telling him what to do.

“Pick it up,” he says.

The angel grasps the tablet and does as he’s told.

“Now, put some of your Grace into it. Not a lot, just a bit, and—.”

No more than Gadreel has thought of it do the letters on the tablet begin to shine, white and gold and warm in his hand. He can _feel_ the power underneath his hand, flowing, cascading, gathering around his wrist and weaving up his arm like water. It leaves gooseflesh in its wake, and Sam feels dizzy with the intensity of it.

But other than a rush of power, nothing happens. Gadreel feels warm and restored, perhaps healthier than he’s felt since the dawn of time, but he no more knows how to harness the power than Kevin does.

And the fear morphs into utter terror.

He sets the tablet down with a clatter, backing away from the table, Sam’s heart racing in their shared chest.

“Forgive me,” Gadreel says. “It did not work. I cannot use it.”

And he flees the room, ignoring Sam’s protests to try again.

 

* * *

 

Two days later, they’re three states over and working one hell of a confusing case. They’re either hunting a woman in white, another rit zien, or some other vengeful angel. 

Gadreel feels great discomfort at the prospect of hunting other angels (as does Sam) at this post-torture junction. But they have a serious problem here to fix, and where problems exist, hunters must move in and clean up the mess. Plus, they just need some intel; something to help them understand.

Since Sam’s realization, he’s distanced himself from Gadreel somewhat, afraid and uncomfortable and just worried about how the angel will react. It hasn’t gone unnoticed, either. Gadreel inquired after his well-being, but Sam wouldn’t answer. The angel did not further push or intrude, but Sam knows it’s only a matter of time before he accidentally lets it slip, somehow. And Gadreel will feel creeped out and disgusted and will probably leave.

Sam just tries not to think about it, which of course means he thinks about it a lot. It’s just a matter of not thinking about it at the right times.

He shifts in his seat, trying to find a comfortable position. Oh, well. No one made bar stools with comfort in mind. He needs to distract himself, anyway.

“So, more angel exorcisms?” he asks after Cas returns to the table.

“Yes,” the angel answers, downing half a bottle of beer in several long gulps.

Dean gives him a look. “Damn, Cas. Don’t tell me you’re getting hammered while on the job.”

The angel shakes his head and ignores Dean. “It’s heinous. There are other ways to take an angel’s Grace that don’t involve such a terrible, painful death. There’s no sense to it.”

Dean grimaces, passing another beer to Cas. “There ain’t nothing about this that makes sense, Cas.”

Sam hears Gadreel thinking about the angel tablet again, about the pain his brothers and sisters suffer, and truly wonders if he could help for the first time. The idea leaves him… open. Just a bit.

After a while, Sam excuses himself from the table because, really, Dean and Cas have gotten kind of _distracted_ (Cas has gotten himself drunk and Dean’s ogling him like he’s the most adorable thing _ever_ ). He’s pretty sure he brought a book on angel lore with him, though Gadreel chuckles at him, and tells him he could inform him on many things not in the book. But Sam’s bored, so he goes to get the book anyway. He’ll probably just end up sitting in the car, talking to the angel.

Neither Sam nor Gadreel expect Metatron to stroll up behind them and cluck his tongue.

Gadreel rushes to the forefront so quickly it takes Sam a second to register what’s happening—and probably not for the better. He grips his angel blade tightly in his sleeve. Sam feels burning, righteous fury boiling now, and it's so encompassing Sam can only make out one clear directive: _Protect_.

"Well, I’m really looking forward to this,” Metatron says, a smirk splitting his face.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _“Have you no beginning and end? Which heart is the real one? Which eye the seer?”_ ~ Anne Sexton


End file.
